


Whims of Fate

by tarinumenesse



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Politics, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Canon-Typical Violence, Childhood Trauma, Complicated Relationships, F/M, First Love, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Period Typical Attitudes, Politics, Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:33:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22557160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarinumenesse/pseuds/tarinumenesse
Summary: After the Tragedy of Duscur, the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus falls into disarray. In an effort to secure the throne and his own power, Regent Rufus Blaiddyd proposes a marriage between his nephew, Crown Prince Dimitri, and the heir apparent to the Adrestian Empire, Edelgard von Hresvelg.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & Claude von Riegan, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Edelgard von Hresvelg, Edelgard von Hresvelg & Hubert von Vestra, Edelgard von Hresvelg & My Unit | Byleth
Comments: 173
Kudos: 247





	1. Dimitri

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote a thing. It is not the thing I planned to write. Nonetheless I give you the thing.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Enbarr, Dimitri faces a future that has been decided for him.

**Year 1178, Blue Sea Moon. Day 21**

From the balcony of his room in the Imperial palace, Dimitri could see as far as the Great Gate of Enbarr. The city between him and that gate was dazzling. The sun’s rays reflected off the white walls of the buildings, bathing the streets in light. To the east, the dome of the Mittelfrank Opera rose above the roofline. To the west, the spire of Enbarr Cathedral pierced the sky.

Enbarr could not be more at odds with Fhirdiad. Dimitri was struck by its beauty, the aura of purity and holiness it exuded. In comparison Fhirdiad’s streets were twisted and dark, riddled with dirty corners and brightened only by the colourful textiles that fought back the gloom of endless winter.

“The Blessed City,” Dimitri muttered to himself.

He understood why Enbarr was called that now, but despite its magnificence and the stifling warmth of the southern spring, Dimitri felt cold. It was beautiful, but he could not love it. Even the knowledge that Saint Seiros had once walked these streets stirred no emotion in him. Enbarr was a necessity, but Fhirdiad would always be home.

“Your Highness?”

Dimitri glanced over his shoulder to see Rodrigue enter the balcony, leaving the door ajar behind him. Probably as an invitation to Felix. Dimitri knew it would not be taken up.

“I’m ready,” Dimitri said in anticipation of Rodrigue’s question.

He returned to the view. Rodrigue stepped up beside him and leaned on the balustrade.

“Nowhere on the continent compares to this city,” Rodrigue said. “The care that went into planning and constructing Enbarr is unsurpassed. Every building in the city centre is of sandstone brick, whitewashed with a lime and lead mixture. Astonishing, considering it took three hundred years for the city to reach the limits of its outer wall.”

Any other day, Rodrigue’s habit of turning every moment into a lesson would have amused Dimitri. But today his mind was too full of other things.

“Is that an indication of the Adrestian approach to life?” he asked.

Rodrigue turned to Dimitri with a sad smile.

“Sometimes I think you are too astute. Not yet sixteen. At your age, Lambert showed less political insight than a field mole.”

Dimitri’s face burned with the compliment. At the same time, the familiar pain at hearing his father’s name prickled. More than two years had passed, but it had not eased.

“You praise me too readily, Rodrigue,” he said. “I haven’t achieved anything. I am not even king.”

Rodrigue straightened. “That is Faerghus’s great loss.” The duke paused, casting his eyes towards the door. “I am truly sorry, Your Highness, that I was not able to prevent this from happening.”

Dimitri shook his head and busied himself with the braid on his jacket.

“No one bears guilt for this situation except those monsters who murdered my family,” he said.

“You will not extend your criticism to Rufus?”

Dimitri let his hand drop to his side. Rodrigue had asked with genuine curiosity, he knew. But it was a hard question to answer. Any response was tainted with loyalty and blood and discomfort, and the drunken entreaties of a man who looked too much like his father.

“How can I?” Dimitri said finally. “He is my uncle and, by law, my guardian and the Regent.”

Rodrigue rested a hand on Dimitri’s shoulder. “I wonder when you learned to speak like this,” he said.

It was a throwaway statement. They both knew exactly when Dimitri had changed. Adulthood had been thrust upon him at thirteen, without any regard for his readiness. What he had seen would change even the most carefree child.

“Dad.”

Dimitri and Rodrigue both looked towards the door. Felix stood just inside it, arms crossed as he made a study of the balcony floor.

“The escort’s arrived,” he said.

“Well then,” Rodrigue said. He turned back and reached out to straighten Dimitri’s jacket. Dimitri saw Felix flinch before he disappeared into the apartment.

“It’s time,” Rodrigue continued, ignorant of his son’s reaction. “Are you ready to meet your future bride?”

Dimitri’s heart leapt. “Don’t forget I’ve already met her,” he said. “It’s a reunion, not a meeting.”

Their escort was the Duke of Aegir himself, Prime Minister of Adrestia. He bowed deeply to Dimitri, sweeping an arm under his belly.

“Crown Prince,” he said, “welcome to Enbarr.”

When Aegir straightened, he cast a stern eye over Dimitri. Dimitri was used to being studied and criticised, but when the duke smirked he began to worry. Were his marks loose or his buttons askew? Dimitri’s hands twitched. Fortunately, Aegir spoke before they could betray him and check.

“What a quaint suit,” he said. “Is this still the fashion in Faerghus?”

Dimitri fumbled for words. His clothing had been newly tailored for the occasion, and great care had gone into every detail despite the lack of funds for such things. Until that moment he had felt comfortable and perhaps even a little dashing in it. Now, Dimitri glanced over Aegir’s outfit and noticed the length of his coat, the two lines of buttons and his elaborate belt. It was decorated with tassels, not braiding. He realised he must look the part of a backwater lord and felt warmth creep up his neck.

Rodrigue took a protective step in front of Dimitri, drawing Aegir’s attention.

“We thank the emperor for his kind hospitality,” Rodrigue said. “The tours of the city have kept us greatly entertained the last few days. And now he sends the prime minister to escort us to the ceremony.”

Aegir lifted an eyebrow as he waited for Rodrigue to finish his speech. Courtly manners forbid him from interrupting, but Dimitri suspected he dearly wished to.

“Fraldarius,” he said, omitting Rodrigue’s title. His tone revealed it was not a mistake. “I heard you were the chaperone.”

“Chaperone is not the correct term,” Rodrigue replied. “I think of Dimitri as my own son, Duke Aegir.”

Felix exhaled loudly through his nose at the same time as Aegir cleared his throat. Aegir glanced at him with an arched eyebrow.

“Your offshoot? The apple doesn’t fall far,” he commented. Then he brushed down his sleeve and advised smoothly, “May I suggest you refrain from using the prince’s given name in front of the emperor? It is considered crass. You should rather refer to him as the Prince of Morgaine.”

Dimitri’s anxiety swelled. But Rodrigue just frowned and said, “Dimitri is not the Prince of Morgaine yet. The betrothal ceremony is still two days hence. Besides, I am a lord of Faerghus. To me he will always be crown prince of the Holy Kingdom. That carries more weight than any title the emperor bestows.”

Knowing this couldn’t continue, Dimitri circled around Rodrigue and placed himself between the two dukes. Allowing an argument to boil would surely cause trouble for them, especially if its basis was the title he would assume as the future emperor’s consort.

“Duke Aegir, it is very kind of you to escort us to the ceremony,” Dimitri said, falling back onto courtly manners. Aegir would surely submit to them. “I had surmised from your letter than you had a generous heart.”

Aegir took a step back and smoothed his moustache with his thumb. “I do what I can, my lord,” he said. “Today is an important day. It would be remiss for me to not ensure everything unfolds according to the emperor’s will.”

“Then I don’t want to make you late.”

Aegir performed another bow. “It is nothing. We shall leave at your pleasure, my lord.”

Rodrigue waited until the duke’s back was turned before leaning towards Dimitri.

“Forgive me, Your Highness,” he said. “There is no good feeling between the two of us.”

“I guessed,” Dimitri replied. “At least we’re only here a week.”

“I fear that is ample time for me to lose my patience,” Rodrigue said with a grimace. “It is fortunate we are forbidden weapons.”

That finally drew a real smile from Dimitri. Judging from the way Aegir lumbered down the hallway, he would struggle to match Rodrigue in a fight. Even Lambert had frequently failed to keep pace with the Shield of Faerghus.

In the carriage the emperor had provided, Dimitri sat beside Aegir. Opposite, Felix was pressed as far into the corner as possible so a large gap was left between him and his father. He stared determinedly out the window, ignoring his companions. Dimitri noticed the twitch in Aegir’s cheek as he studied the younger Fraldarius.

“I’ve a boy of my own, similar age to yours,” he said to Rodrigue. “Top of all his classes and an exemplary spearman.”

“You must be proud. Felix prefers the sword.”

Aegir tapped his fingers across the armrest beside him. “I thought the son of Faerghus’s greatest holy knight would study sorcery. He doesn’t use magic?”

Felix gave away the fact that he was listening with a dark scowl.

“On the contrary,” Rodrigue said, “he led a battalion of mages in the Western Rebellion. He was beside Dimitri when victory was claimed.”

Felix’s eyes darted towards Dimitri before he twisted in his seat so his face was hidden entirely. Dimitri felt another of the frayed threads of their friendship snap. Aegir closed his mouth with a glower, apparently accepting defeat.

The carriage stuttered and slowed. Dimitri peeked out the window. Progress had been stalled by the hordes of people crowded around Enbarr Cathedral. They lined the street and clamoured all over the steps leading to the building’s entrance. There was only a slip of a pathway left for the people attending the ceremony. Dimitri’s lunch began to churn in his stomach, and he regretted eating it.

This was his first appearance in front of the Adrestian people as the crown prince of Faerghus. His uncle’s advisors had told Dimitri that there was a great deal of interest in him among the Adrestian masses. It was only natural, they said. A country that had fought the Empire for independence, offering the heir to the throne up as consort to their future emperor? There was no better fuel for gossip than humiliation.

Dimitri was jolted forward as the carriage stopped completely. The door swung open to reveal an eager footman in red livery. Aegir gestured out the door, his eyes trained on Dimitri.

“You must go first, my lord,” he said.

Gritting his teeth, Dimitri grabbed the handle on the carriage door and leaned out. The cheers that had greeted their arrival faltered. Dimitri keep his eyes on the ground and extended one foot towards the carriage step.

He tripped.

The footman grabbed Dimitri’s elbow, yanking him backwards so that he didn’t fall flat on his face. The closest members of the crowd sniggered. Dimitri looked up and saw dozens, hundreds of people turned towards him. Watching.

He took a breath. A young woman met his eyes and quickly lifted her hand to cover a laugh. Dimitri’s face burned as he gently nudged the footman away and squared his shoulders. He focussed on the narrow pathway between the people. One step, then another. Don’t look at them.

But he could feel the weight of their stares, smell the sweat of too many people squashed together under the heat of the Adrestian sun. They pressed closer. He felt fingers brushing his sleeves, heard mocking whispers in harsh and cultured voices alike.

_They call this runt a prince?_

_The traitor’s offspring finally crawls home._

_Bet he wet himself when the assassins attacked._

Dimitri thought of his father and tricked to mimic his confidence. But he was in the capital city of the most powerful nation on the continent, and he was only the prince of a country that was falling apart, ripped to shreds by nobles fighting over the crown that had fallen from his father’s severed head.

Oh goddess, he was going to be sick.

Rodrigue appeared at Dimitri’s side, one hand landing firmly on his shoulder.

“Straight ahead, Dima,” he said.

The familiar name, so rarely heard since Duscur, weaved a strong spell. Through its power Dimitri was able to make his way up the stairs and through the iron doors of the cathedral.

Once inside, the whispers faded, replaced by the strains of church music. Dimitri’s feet froze in place as he looked around in awe. Directly ahead of him, but nearly four hundred feet away, was a golden altar twice his height. The nave leading towards it was lined with glistening white and black striped pillars, urging the worshipper towards the apse. From his position, he could count at least seven chapels decorating the aisles. There would be more that he could not see.

Belatedly, Dimitri noticed the Adrestian nobles and churchmen in the choir stalls. They were standing, waiting while he gawked at the architecture. He realised he did not know where he was supposed to go. Fortunately, at that moment Aegir sauntered past him and towards the right. Dimitri quickly followed.

“Do not be embarrassed, my lord,” Aegir said as he opened the gate that led into the stalls. “Many have been overwhelmed by the splendours of Enbarr’s treasures.”

Aegir gestured once again for Dimitri to go first. He managed the steps without incident this time and pushed his way past several Adrestian nobles towards the empty seats that must be for him, Aegir…

Dimitri paused, counting again. “Where will Felix sit?” he asked, glancing back at Aegir.

“He will stand with the commoners on the floor,” Aegir answered without hesitation. “He is not of a sufficient rank to sit in the stalls.”

Beyond Aegir, Rodrigue clenched his jaw. He turned to Felix and whispered something. Felix nodded and stepped backwards. He bowed in Dimitri’s direction, then crossed the cathedral floor towards the barriers that contained wealthy merchants, farmers and tradespeople. They watched, wide-eyed, as Felix ducked under the barrier and turned to face the nave.

In the seat beside Dimitri’s was an orange-haired noble who could only be Aegir’s son. He stood gracefully, executing a perfect bow in a jacket that was miraculously unwrinkled and without the ruby pin falling out of his cravat. Dimitri suddenly felt like he had grown extra limbs, and an itch travelled up his spine as he was reminded of Aegir’s earlier comments about his suit. If this was a sample of his Adrestian peers, Dimitri didn’t have a chance in paradise.

“My lord,” Aegir’s son said, “I am Ferdinand von Aegir. It is an honour to meet you.”

“Perhaps my son can explain the ceremony to you?” Aegir said, plopping into the empty seat beside Dimitri and separating him entirely from all allies. Dimitri threw a pleading look at Rodrigue, but Rodrigue gave a slight shake of his head and sat beside Aegir.

Dimitri sat down slowly to avoid any more mishaps. Ferdinand copied his pace, which Dimitri found strangely irritating. He had the same reaction when Ferdinand twisted towards him and began to explain the history of the cathedral, starting with the floor tiles and moving all the way up to the buttresses. All day Dimitri had been drifting between anticipating and dreading the ceremony, and within a moment he was firmly of the opinion that it could not begin quickly enough.

It was when Ferdinand was describing the folktale about how Saint Cichol had met the mother of his daughter, Saint Cethleann, in the Hresvelg chapel that trumpets blasted through his words and caused him to fall blessedly silent. All eyes turned towards the altar. From the left, a man in rich red robes entered. He did not wear a crown or any other adornment, but Dimitri knew who it was.

“The emperor,” Ferdinand said in an undertone. “Ionius IX.”

Dimitri’s future father-in-law. Ionius walked towards the altar at a snail’s pace, every movement suggesting physical frailty. His white hair hung loose about his thin, sunken face, and his eyes were so deep set and grey that at a distance they appeared to be empty holes. Dimitri shuddered at the unpleasant thought.

Once Ionius had reached the altar, the bishop came forward. He bowed to the emperor before turning his back on him.

“The bishop becomes the emperor’s surrogate for the ceremony,” Ferdinand whispered.

Ferdinand’s commentary was unnecessary. Dimitri had been swamped with lessons about the Empire’s culture and traditions from the moment his uncle Rufus revealed the plan. The fact that the church officiated the investiture of the heir apparent instead of the emperor’s coronation had struck Dimitri as particularly bizarre. He had questioned it relentlessly. Eventually a monk silenced him with a stern and unrelated warning not to fall into temptation considering his new situation and the Empire’s increasingly sinful ways.

Another trumpet sounded. The cheering of the crowd outside reached a height, drifting into the cathedral on the heels of a young woman dressed in a red and gold gown.

Dimitri’s breath caught. After four years, there she was.

The year Edelgard left, Dimitri wrote her once a month without fail. He never received a reply. Fourteen months later, he learned Edelgard’s true identity when she rose to prominence as the last surviving Adrestian princess. All her siblings had succumbed to a horrible plague. Dimitri was glad to hear news of her, but by that time he had accepted that they would never recover their former friendship. Even when the marriage had been agreed upon, Dimitri had not allowed himself to hope.

However, now Edelgard paused in her progress up the nave. She looked towards the stalls and her eyes rested on Dimitri. Every muscle in his body tensed.

Dimitri had tried to imagine what Edelgard would look like many times throughout the past year. His best efforts had fallen woefully short. She was beautiful. Her features were elegant and ethereal, qualities enhanced by the shade of white they had dyed her hair. The gentle lilac of her eyes was countered by the sharp intelligence in their gaze. And the scooped neck of her gown revealed unblemished, pale skin that intrigued him beyond words.

Suddenly, a smile shadowed Edelgard’s lips. Dimitri’s heart raced.

After the Worst, only one thing had held the power to brighten Dimitri’s thoughts: Edelgard’s mischievous smile and squeal when Cornelia drank from a cup she had slipped a spider into. As he grew older and realised that Faerghus was collapsing (Dimitri’s memories were of being woken in the night to hide in the basements; of long months trapped indoors while the armies of the Western lords surrounded Fhirdiad; of battle cries and blood when his uncle finally drove them back), Edelgard’s laughter was the only thing that cut through the guilt of knowing his own inexperience and youth was the reason his homeland was falling apart.

So when his uncle Rufus announced his plan, Dimitri remained silent. When Rodrigue rode into Fhirdiad on his fastest horse and entered a private party to announce his opposition, Dimitri said not a word. When Margrave Gautier added his support to Rodrigue and Rufus banned them both from court, Dimitri quietly went to his lessons.

Dimitri's uncle had handed him a panacea. By forging an alliance with House Hresvelg, Dimitri could put undisputed power behind the Blaiddyd claim and end unrest in Faerghus. In the same move, he would be reunited with Edelgard. All his doubts–Enbarr, its people, his own inadequacy–lost significance in the face of those two facts. And marrying the girl he had loved for nearly six years could hardly be called a sacrifice, even if she was heir to the Kingdom’s and his family’s historical enemy.


	2. Edelgard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edelgard's first meeting with her betrothed takes an unexpected turn.

The crown, originally made for Edelgard’s eldest brother, was loose on her head. It finally tumbled off when she made her bow to her father, clanging like a gong as it bounced on the wooden floor of the reception hall.

Edelgard froze. No one had told her what to do if her crown fell off. She did not believe in omens, but what a perfect one it would be.

It was Hubert who broke the hush that had settled over the room. His heels clicked on the floor as he moved forward. He picked up the crown, brushed it off, and returned to his place. Edelgard watched as he slipped his hands and crown behind his back, standing to attention.

The spell on the hall broke. Edelgard rose from her bow as though nothing had happened. Her father, also ignoring the mishap, placed his hands on Edelgard’s shoulders. In a mechanical gesture of affection, he kissed each of her cheeks.

With their greetings exchanged, the formalities were over. Edelgard was officially Heir Apparent. She drew away from the throne in relief, but her father stopped her with a swift squeeze of her shoulders. Surprised at the uncharacteristic action, Edelgard looked up into his face.

“I’m sorry,” her father whispered.

The words sliced at a wound Edelgard had tried to close since her return from the Nameless Place. It was the first time her father had acknowledged how profoundly he had failed her and her siblings. Although it didn’t change anything, and although Edelgard would never forget what he had done, in that moment she couldn’t help but forgive him. He looked so weary and broken that she doubted she could deny him anything. So she nodded.

Peace washed over her father’s face, easing the sharp lines around his eyes and mouth. He released her and sank onto the throne. Edelgard turned her back on him, a strange contentment warming her heart.

Hubert dropped into step beside her as Edelgard moved through the hall. He brushed his hand against her hip to point her towards a clearing near the orchestra. Hubert was the only person who dared touch her so intimately. And Edelgard was certain, even without a comparison, that only Hubert could send a shiver through her body with such a slight touch. But she kept that detail to herself, knowing that he considered her as his liege and nothing more.

Edelgard waited in the spot by the orchestra while Hubert scurried away to find refreshment. He returned with a wine glass for her–a treat her father had permitted for the day of her investiture. As she accepted it, Edelgard noticed the crown was gone.

“What did you do with it?” she asked.

“It is safe, my lady,” Hubert said.

From Hubert, no other reassurance was needed. When Edelgard had returned after their second period of separation, he had wept at the changes in her and swore to never leave her side again. A serious vow for a boy of fifteen, but one he had kept faithfully ever since.

Edelgard sipped at the wine as she surveyed the room. The people of the court had commenced their revelry, some of them already so loud that she wondered if there had been clandestine consumption of alcohol throughout the day. Many kept glancing towards her, but Hubert’s stare kept them at bay.

It allowed her to find her true subject of interest. Crown Prince Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd. He stood across the hall at an angle to her, engaged in conversation with the two black haired attendants he had brought from Fhirdiad. Her heart sank a little at this one obvious blight on an otherwise pleasant day.

By the time Edelgard heard of the proposal, the deal had been done. Aegir had made sure that she had no say in the marriage. He excused his betrayal with the line that it was good for Adrestia. Edelgard had never heard such nonsense, but the reality was that she was powerless to do anything. Until she reached her majority, she was subject to the emperor’s (in truth Duke Aegir’s) whims.

Edelgard only wished it had been anyone but the prince of Faerghus, someone for whom she felt only contempt.

“What do you think of my future husband?” she asked Hubert, gesturing towards the prince.

“What would you like me to think of him, my lady?”

Edelgard looked up at Hubert over her shoulder. His eyes were narrow, the muscles of his neck tense as he examined the prince. His manner would make it impossible to believe any kind word that came from his mouth.

“I asked because I wish to know your honest opinion,” Edelgard said.

“He is weak.”

Edelgard chuckled, swirling the wine in her glass.

“He bears none of the attributes one would expect of a man in his position. He seems lost in the flood of the court, and uneasy with ceremony. He allows his attendants to direct his thoughts and opinions. Especially the older one, Duke Rodrigue Achille Fraldarius. He was the closest friend of the late king of Faerghus.”

“He kept his father’s advisors?”

“He did, my lady.”

Edelgard sighed. The more she learned about this prince, the less she liked him.

“If we are not careful, the prince could prove a tripping stone to our plans,” Hubert said.

“How so?”

“He is unremarkable.”

“Surely that is a good thing.”

“Unremarkable means he will be easily swayed by the people around him. If our enemies were to gain his ear…”

Edelgard took a sip of wine as Hubert let that thought simmer. Across the room, Ferdinand approached the prince. She saw a fake smile rise on the prince’s face. He did not like Ferdinand. But he did not do anything to make him go away. Ferdinand began to talk, his hands waving through the air, completely oblivious to his listener’s discomfort. Still the prince did nothing.

“You are right,” Edelgard said. “He lacks resolve. But until I reach majority, there is nothing I can do about him.”

“Unless you become emperor.”

Hubert looked down at her, wearing that scheming expression she adored. The thought that they could achieve their aims before Edelgard turned nineteen, within two short years, was thrilling. It was something that felt possible with him by her side.

But talk like that was dangerous.

“Goddess preserve my father, that will not happen for many years,” she reprimanded softly. Hubert agreed with her true feelings on the matter, but the people around them would not. And they were listening. They would laugh at Hubert’s harsh summary of the prince, and admire her own reluctance to take him as consort, but they would not tolerate anything that sounded like treason.

Hubert bowed his head. “Of course, my lady.”

Edelgard held out her wine glass. A servant hurried over to collect it.

“Perhaps it is time I met this prince of Faerghus,” she said. “After all, in two days we will be betrothed.”

“Do you require my attendance, my lady?”

“I rely upon it.”

Ferdinand alerted the prince to Edelgard’s approach with an exaggerated bow. The prince, being of a comparable status to her, did not bow, but he did tug at the hem of his jacket and straighten his posture. When he met Edelgard’s eyes, he smiled shyly. A genuine one. Edelgard wondered what it could possibly mean.

“Your Highness,” Ferdinand said, seizing the conversation, “may I congratulate you on your investiture?”

“You may,” Edelgard said without taking her eyes off the prince.

“Now be on your way,” Hubert added in deathly tones.

Ferdinand hesitated. No doubt he had spoken to the prince to gain an advantage over her. He would not wish to relinquish it. But he quickly realised he had no choice, and Edelgard saw his retreat from the corner of her eye.

Up close, Edelgard found she was still unimpressed by the prince. His smile turned a fairly sickly and pale face into something that might one day be handsome, but for now he seemed to be stuck in adolescence. There were noticeable spots on his nose, and his limbs were overly long and lanky. It was probably unfair to compare him to Hubert, who had already reached adulthood, but she couldn’t help it.

Edelgard was, however, forced to admit that there was something about the prince’s eyes. Piercing and sky blue, exactly what one would expect from the heir of the Blaiddyd line. She let that convince her that he might be more than the sum of his awkward parts and held out her hand.

“Your Highness, may I present Her Imperial Highness Edelgard von Hresvelg.”

It was the elder attendant, Duke Fraldarius, who spoke. He bowed when Edelgard glanced towards him.

The hand that took hers was clammy, startling Edelgard and drawing her attention back to the prince. He brushed his lips across her fingers. Something in the way he did it was too familiar.

“Your Imperial Highness.” He paused, then added warmly, “El.”

Edelgard snatched her hand away from him, anger and hatred flaring. That name stirred so much anguish, so much pain, that for a moment her breath came short. She saw the faces of her brothers and sisters, jaundiced and gaunt as they struggled through their final days. Or, almost worse, the insanity in the eyes of her eldest brother and third sister.

Hubert took a step forward, raising a fist. Duke Fraldarius pushed the prince behind him, while the other attendant curiously did nothing.

“How dare you address Her Highness in that way?” Hubert growled.

Edelgard threw an arm out in front of him, preventing him from advancing further.

“Lord Vestra,” she said firmly.

Hubert shrunk back, but Edelgard could sense the tendrils of his dark magic. She would have to pacify him later. For now, she glared at the prince, who (she had to admit, to his credit) had emerged from behind his attendant.

“Only close friends and family may call me by that name,” she said.

The prince looked confused. “But…”

He paused again. His lack of conviction was doing little to improve his standing in Edelgard’s opinion.

“Don’t you remember me?” he asked.

Edelgard laughed. It was only when the prince shrunk back that she realised the question was sincere.

“What do you mean?” she said. “We have never met before today. I am at a loss as to how you even know that name.”

The prince glanced at Hubert before moving towards her.

“You insisted I call you that,” he said earnestly.

Hubert snorted. Edelgard reached behind her and grabbed his hand, hiding the action among her skirts. The prince may not be the most inspiring of future husbands, but the devastation in his face was real. She had hated the prince of Faerghus for the better part of six years, but confronted with his distress it seemed cruel to allow Hubert to mock him.

“We have never met before,” Edelgard said.

“But we…”

Duke Fraldarius laid a hand on the prince’s shoulder. He stopped speaking immediately. Hubert released Edelgard’s hand, casting her a look clearly conveying his derision for the prince. Edelgard ignored it and held her hand out again.

“Let’s start over,” she suggested. “Prince Dimitri, isn’t it?”

The prince took her hand and repeated the gesture of greeting. But this time, there was no warmth, joy, or even polite interest in it. He was ruled strongly by emotion. That concerned Edelgard. It was not a good quality for her consort to possess. Or a crown prince, for that matter.

“Your Imperial Highness,” the prince recited flatly. “It is an honour to be here.”

Edelgard took back her hand, unnerved by the change in him. Adrestians rarely expressed their emotions so openly. She did not know how to reply. While she hesitated, the prince gestured towards the Duke.

“This is Duke Rodrigue Achille Fraldarius,” he said. “And his son and heir, Lord Felix Hugo Fraldarius. They are two of my most trusted friends.”

At least in his disappointment, the prince was resorting to that most traditional of noble lifelines: courtly ettiquette. That Edelgard could respond to. She regarded father and son, noting the son’s grunt as the prince introduced them. They both bowed beautifully, however.

“A pleasure to meet you,” she said. “This is Hubert von Vestra. My vassal and friend.”

Hubert bristled as she added friend, but he bowed to the prince without further fuss. He frequently insisted on being introduced as a vassal only, and Edelgard just as frequently chose to ignore him.

Duke Fraldarius glanced from Edelgard to his prince. “Perhaps Her Imperial Highness would like some time to speak privately with His Highness?”

He spoke with so much determination that Edelgard was given no room to refuse. Like every order given her, it sparked rebellion, making her want to somehow remind the duke who she was. But her mind argued back and she had to acknowledge the sense of the idea. It would be better to go before her father and the Seven at the betrothal ceremony with at least a little knowledge of the prince.

“Your Highness?” Hubert asked, offering an escape.

“Dimitri and I will view the gallery,” she said.

The prince looked up hopefully as Edelgard said his name. It made her uncomfortable.

There was a decided lack of culture among the reigning class of the Imperial court. Even in their pursuit of royal favour, they never followed Edelgard to the gallery. That was the reason she had suggested it. She wanted time to figure out the prince without any distractions.

Unfortunately, the moment they were alone the prince retreated into himself. He displayed an unnatural interest in the portraits of her ancestors. Edelgard had hoped he would direct the conversation so she could learn how his mind worked, but he did not seem inclined to say anything at all.

“Your silence makes me think I have offended you,” Edelgard said finally.

The prince stopped in his progress from one portrait to another. Edelgard realised that it was only when he was still that his body betrayed him. In motion, his inelegance was tempered by a thorough training in the princely arts. His steps were light, his shoulders held back and his movements certain. She wondered it if was due in some part to combat training. His musculature (his suit fit unfashionably snug enough to allow a fairly accurate assessment) showed he was likely accomplished with a spear. That would make sense, considering his bloodline’s Relic.

Edelgard’s thoughts were interrupted as he finally spoke.

“You really do not remember me.”

Edelgard rubbed her cuff between her finger and thumb, considering her response. She followed the prince as he moved onto a portrait of Wilhelmina, her many times great-grandmother.

“When did this meeting of ours take place?” she asked.

The prince looked down at her. “When you came to Fhirdiad.”

Uneasiness crept through Edelgard’s chest. She walked away from him. “Impossible,” she said.

“We played together for over a year,” he said, chasing her. His voice and movements were turning desperate. Edelgard could not fathom why this meant so much to him. “I called you El and you called me Dima.”

“I had a friend in Fhirdiad,” Edelgard said, determined to correct him. “But it was not you.”

“You taught me to dance.”

Edelgard stopped. The prince faced her and met her eyes. Edelgard tried to imagine that face six years younger, to see if it triggered a memory. There was nothing.

“I did not,” she said. But there was a tremor in her voice. The prince smiled.

“You remember,” he said.

“No. There was a boy, but it was not you.”

“You lived at the royal castle. Who else could it be?”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I never would, El.”

“Don’t call me that!”

Edelgard pushed him away and fled towards a window. It was too stuffy in the gallery. She fumbled with the latch. It took several attempts to budge it, but finally it moved. Edelgard snapped it down with a thud and threw the window open, breathing deeply of the fresh air.

The memories of her friend were intimately twisted in with the dank, stale air of the Nameless Place. Her months in that prison had stolen his name and face, but Edelgard remembered teaching him to dance. He had been clumsy, always stepping with the wrong foot. At the time it had been frustrating, but after a few days locked away with her brothers and sisters, the memory had been sweet and life-giving. Edelgard had enjoyed holding his hand. Throughout the terror, that had saved her sanity. Besides Hubert, there was no person more precious in the world than the one who had chased away her loneliness and despair throughout those years.

That was why her lost friend could not be the prince. He could not be the person she hated as fervently as she adored him. The prince of Faerghus had stolen Edelgard’s mother. By the time it was safe to return to Enbarr, Patricia was married to King Lambert. She had a new husband and a son. She was a queen, no longer in need of her daughter, a mere afterthought to the ten princes and princesses born of other consorts and courtesans. So Edelgard had returned alone. Without her mother to protect her, she was taken to the Nameless Place.

It was perverse enough that Edelgard would soon be betrothed to a person who had injured her so severely. If he was her childhood friend as well, it would be enough to make her renounce the goddess entirely.

“I remember very little of that time,” Edelgard said calmly, turning back to the prince.

He would not be dissuaded. “But you remember me?”

Edelgard sighed. “I do not,” she said.

The prince backed away. He lifted a hand to his temple and rubbed it, as though easing a headache.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Forgive me. Forget I ever spoke.”

While they were walking back from their disastrous expedition, Edelgard decided to give the prince one last chance. He had been so obsessed with their imagined acquaintance that they had spoken of nothing else. Her stubbornness refused to allow her to return with nothing.

“My father told me that it was your uncle, not you, who issued the proposal of marriage,” she said.

The prince nodded. “He did not tell me of the arrangement until you had accepted.”

“But you are here, so I assume you are not too disappointed with it?”

“I am not.”

“Do you concede to your uncle in everything?”

The prince’s jaw twitched.

“My uncle is regent. I concede to him in matters of state.”

“You are crown prince. Surely you have a say?”

“In matters of schooling and wardrobe and little else.”

Edelgard brushed her hair over her shoulder, holding onto her immediate reaction to learning he was in charge of his wardrobe.

“Schooling?” she queried instead.

The prince’s expression brightened, the grey tone his skin had taken on since their walk through the gallery easing a little.

“I will attend the Officers Academy at Garreg Mach in a year’s time.”

Edelgard regarded him with surprise. For the first time that afternoon, her opinion of him improved. There was still a lot of ground to recover, but perhaps it was a start.

“As will I,” she said.

The prince’s lips twisted into a momentary smile. “I suppose that will be the next time we see each other after I leave Enbarr.”

He was holding out hope, Edelgard realised suddenly. Even after her repeated denials.

“Perhaps we should correspond,” she suggested carefully.

The prince looked at her for the first time since they left the gallery. After a moment, he nodded.

Satisfied, Edelgard entered the reception hall. She had learned one thing, at least. There was no need to worry about the prince being unremarkable if she could control him.


	3. Dimitri

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The evening before departing for Garreg Mach, Dimitri is reminded anew of the situation in his homeland.

**Year 1180, Great Tree Moon. Day 3**

“Nephew!”

Dimitri, his heart sinking, exchanged a look with Dedue. Dedue sank into the shadows at the edge of the room.

“Where is my nephew?”

The shout was accompanied by the clunk of wooden heels in the hallway. A subsequent curse was answered with the light staccato of a woman’s laughter. Dimitri clenched his teeth. The map spread on the table before him blurred into a collection of odd splotches of colour.

 _Let my uncle not be drunk_ , Dimitri prayed. The third evening bell had not yet rung.

Mila, the captain of Dimitri’s personal guard, released a frustrated groan. Dimitri looked up at her from where he sat. She had been pacing while she briefed him and Dedue on their route to Garreg Mach Monastery. Now, she stopped and dropped her hands flat onto the map, obscuring the Sreng region.

“How did he find us?” she grumbled.

Mila was first and foremost a military woman, and did not like interruptions. She had suggested the eastern morning room for their meeting in an effort to prevent them. But Rufus was incorrigible, leaving Dimitri to feel embarrassed that he had not found a way to stop his uncle barging into private meetings.

“I’m sorry,” Dimitri murmured.

Mila’s perturbed look revealed that she had not meant to blame him. She opened her mouth, but before she could say anything the door of the morning room slammed against the wall.

Dimitri lurched to his feet as his uncle entered with a brown-eyed, purple-haired beauty hanging off his arm. His waistcoat, embroidered with the floral follies popular among the young cavaliers of court, hung open. He wore no shirt underneath. Dimitri flushed at the knowledge that imparted, as well as the sight of his uncle’s pale, flabby belly.

When Dimitri was a child, Rufus had been clear-eyed and athletic. An accomplished swordsman, he had never wanted for admirers. He was well-regarded throughout Faerghus despite his lack of a Crest. Dimitri remembered taking great pride in his uncle, almost as much as he had taken in his father.

But things had changed after Lambert’s death. The rumours of Rufus’s involvement in the Tragedy of Duscur, as well as the endless skirmishes and battles with the western lords, had taken a toll. Although he remained a formidable warrior, Rufus was not the straight-backed and strong man he had been. The speed of his decline had only increased after the agreement in Enbarr, as alcohol and women became props to survive the political quagmire.

Dimitri glanced at Mila and took in the thin line of her lips. Fresh shame burned his cheeks.

“Nephew!”

Rufus abandoned the woman, throwing out his arms and staggering towards Dimitri. Dimitri bowed, bending from the waist to show proper respect for the Lord Regent.

“Good evening, uncle,” he said.

Rufus dragged Dimitri into an embrace.

“My dear boy,” he said, pressing Dimitri against his chest, “you leave tomorrow.”

“We are finalising our route to the monastery, my lord,” Mila said.

Rufus released Dimitri.

“Right, so, you will take the highway?” he said. He was unsteady on his feet as he leaned over the map and gestured to the road to Garreg Mach.

“It seems advisable given the size of the party.”

While Mila explained the route, Dimitri made a study of his uncle. His dishevelled clothing was a sign of the first stage of intoxication, when he grew happy and careless. It was a slight comfort that Rufus was not fully in his cups, but, nonetheless, it would be better to end the audience as quickly as possible. He could be unpredictable even when tipsy.

Dimitri put a gentle hand at his uncle’s elbow.

“I will come and tell you about it later,” he said.

Rufus considered Dimitri. “You are taking two wagons?” he said.

Dimitri blinked, confused. Rufus broke his arm free of Dimitri’s hold.

“Ah, yes,” he laughed. “You are travelling with your little friends, no?”

Rufus had never stopped referring to Ingrid, Sylvain and Felix as Dimitri’s “little friends.” Never mind that Sylvain would be twenty years old in two moons, and had been leading a company of soldiers on the Sreng border throughout the winter.

“Yes, uncle,” Dimitri confirmed as he tried to herd him towards the door.

The attempt was met with an irritated snort and a shove that forced Dimitri away. As his uncle deliberately turned to Dedue, Dimitri curled his fingers into his palms.

“And your vermin too,” Rufus snarled.

Dedue did not react to the insult. He did not move his head or eyes, adjust his stance, grit his teeth. He stared straight ahead, hands clasped behind his back like he was under a military inspection. It made Dimitri ashamed that he wanted to scream and rage, condemning his uncle for his baseless hatred.

“Do you despise me, nephew, that you mock me with his presence?” Rufus said, his gaze turning on Dimitri.

Dimitri swallowed his objection. He stood there, helpless. Some memories of his father had faded in the four years since the Tragedy. The sound of his laughter, the warmth of his embrace. But his thoughtful, unblinking stare had not. Rufus possessed the same one.

Dedue shattered the reverie that had engulfed the room by entering the circle of light and bowing. He passed between Dimitri and his uncle to reach the exit. The beauty, still standing in the doorway, shuffled to avoid having Dedue’s arm brush hers as he left.

As Dedue’s heavy footsteps echoed in the hall, Mila jutted her chin towards Rufus.

“Nothing was meant by his presence, my lord,” she said. “At Garreg Mach, he will be charged with His Highness’s immediate safety. He was here for…”

Rufus shuddered.

“Get out,” he said.

Mila did not move. Instead, she looked to Dimitri. Rufus screeched in anger, flinging his arm after Dedue.

“Everyone!” he shouted. “Now!”

Dimitri gave a slight nod of his head. Mila hesitated, but ultimately bowed. She tried to take the map, but Rufus slammed a hand onto it.

“Leave it,” he said.

Mila pressed her lips together. She grabbed the arm of the beauty, who seemed unaware that she was included in Rufus’s order, and shoved her into the hallway.

“Will you always let others speak for you?” Rufus asked when the door was closed behind them.

“Of course not, uncle.”

Rufus grunted and dropped into the chair Dimitri had vacated. He tapped the table, glaring at the map. Dimitri stood still and at attention.

“I know what they say about me,” Rufus said evenly. “I am not a fool. Even I recognise the logic in the rumours. But do you believe them, nephew?”

Dimitri shook his head. “No.”

Rufus turned on the chair and grabbed Dimitri’s hands, drawing him closer.

“Look me in the eye, boy,” he said. “Look at me! I did not kill my brother. I loved him. I did not kill him.”

Dimitri tensed every muscle in his body to stop from shaking. He took a moment to calm himself, then knelt down in front of his uncle. He lifted his eyes to Rufus’s panic-stricken face.

“I believe you,” he said.

Rufus’s shoulders dropped. He patted Dimitri’s hands, still in his.

“Then why did you save that Duscur parasite?” he asked.

Dimitri winced and looked away.

“Why do you insist on such a vile reminder of my brother’s murder?” Rufus persisted.

“Dedue is as innocent of the Tragedy as you,” Dimitri said, ignoring the dread in his gut. “He has done nothing worthy of condemnation. His only crime is being born of Duscur. And consider, that was all chance.”

Rufus snorted and cast Dimitri’s hands aside. “Do not lecture me on the chance of birth,” he said. “I know it well enough."

Dimitri lowered his head. “Forgive me, uncle.”

Rufus thrust the chair backwards, teetering as he stood. He grabbed Dimitri’s arms.

“Get up,” he said. “The crown prince of Faerghus does not kneel.”

Dimitri obeyed. When they were both upright and facing each other, Rufus placed his hands on Dimitri’s shoulders.

“You rescued that boy when you were only a child yourself,” he said. “I must remember your naiveté and be lenient. You could not have understood that his people killed the king.”

Dimitri bit back his retort. Even as a child, he had understood that everyone believed the people of Duscur killed his father. That was the very reason he had protected Dedue. He could not save a nation, but a boy captured in Fhirdiad’s streets, weak from hunger and a journey across Faerghus, was a different story. Dimitri had rescued one boy as his apology to a whole people for failing to convince his uncle that strangers with ashen skin and empty eyes had slaughtered his family and friends.

“More importantly,” Rufus said, ending the discussion and pointing to Enbarr on the map, “Her Imperial Princess will be studying with you.”

“I am aware,” Dimitri replied.

It was a gross understatement—that detail had been invading his thoughts for weeks—but it was all that Dimitri was at liberty to express. He had learned very quickly that human feeling and emotion were forbidden in any discussion regarding the marriage contract.

“You must not endanger the agreement,” Rufus said. “Give them no reason to cry off. You fought well in the uprisings, but we are nothing without the strength of House Hresvelg.”

Dimitri frowned. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“Make her fall in love with you.” His uncle traced the border between the Kingdom and the Empire. “You inherited the best of the Blaiddyd qualities. You are my brother’s son, tall and handsome. Carrying a Crest.”

There was a bitter edge to the last statement. Rufus lifted his hand off the map.

“We must use what assets we possess,” he said.

Dimitri forked his fingers through his hair. For the past eighteen months, there had been a constant push-and-pull over the terms of the marriage. Adrestia had increased their military support, Faerghus had made financial concessions. The ceremony would take place in Enbarr and a presentation to the people would be made in Fhirdiad eight months later. All solid, quantifiable details. No one had ever spoken of Dimitri’s personal or physical qualities.

“Uncle, what has happened?” Dimitri asked.

“The Adrestian ambassador came to see me.”

Dimitri took a step backwards. The mere sight of the Adrestian ambassador was enough to make him nauseous, but that didn’t stop his uncle from calling him to every meeting. For a discussion to have occurred without him…

“The terms have changed,” Rufus said. “We cannot afford the bride price.”

“No,” Dimitri said, his reaction immediate. “We have put the cost aside every month for the past two years.”

“It is not enough,” Rufus declared, cradling his head in his hands. “We could not save the new amount even with ten more years.”

“Did you agree?” Dimitri pressed.

Rufus nodded. “What else was I to do? We need this alliance. I did not fight the western lords, expend all this effort keeping you safe and well, to have the throne snatched from under us.”

Dimitri could not respond. His life was as pointless without the throne as the throne was without a treasury. Yet he would have to give the treasury to gain the throne. Unless...

“What of my title?” Dimitri asked, dropping onto the chair. In the Adrestians’ minds, the bride price was somehow linked to his position in the hypothetical union between Kingdom and Empire.

“You will still be king. But it is four years until you are of an age to be crowned. Who knows if these new terms will last that long?”

Bile rose in Dimitri’s throat. Once again, their troubles boiled down to his own inadequacies. Ones that he could not fix.

“Fear not, uncle,” Dimitri said, though his voice sounded hollow even to himself. “The betrothal is in no danger. I will make this work.”

“Then the princess still writes you?”

Dimitri nodded.

Rufus sighed in relief. “I am doing the best I can, nephew,” he said. “If you do your part, I will persevere with mine.”

Dimitri watched his uncle run a finger across the map, from the plains of Itha down to Fhirdiad.

Dedue was waiting inside Dimitri’s chamber. Dimitri stopped in the doorway, forcing himself to look his friend in the eye.

“I’m so sorry,” he said.

“It is nothing, my lord,” Dedue said, shaking his head. “Are you all right?”

Dimitri ignored the question. It was too difficult to answer.

“It is not nothing,” he said, entering the room. “The people of Duscur are innocent. You are innocent.”

“The Lord Regent is unaware of that.”

“Wilfully unaware,” Dimitri said. He tugged at his jabot. The fastening was always impossible to locate. “I told him who the assassins were. He made a choice not to believe me.”

Dedue was silent. He stepped forward and unbuttoned Dimitri’s collar. Dimitri closed his eyes, humiliated by his friend’s doubt.

“I know what I saw,” he said softly.

“I am forever thankful for what you did for me, my lord,” Dedue said. He removed the jabot and backed away. “You saved me. You have championed my people in the face of great prejudice. But it is unrealistic to think that the Regent, or anyone else, will believe the word of someone who was a child at the time, particularly after the horrors…”

“Don’t,” Dimitri interrupted, striding away.

He stopped at the window. Below, by the light of coloured lanterns, some of the court aristocrats were walking in the pleasure gardens and admiring the early blossoms. Dimitri, breathing slowly and deeply, watched them.

It was a few minutes before Dedue took up a position beside Dimitri. Dimitri glanced at him. He was folding the jabot compulsively over his hand.

“I am the son of a blacksmith, my lord,” Dedue said. “My understanding of the world was developed over the forge and fire. Forgive me.”

Dimitri hated it when Dedue claimed stupidity. He knew him to have a mind every bit as sharp and intelligent as the best of the ministerial advisors. As sheer numbers attested, it was common wisdom to discredit a thirteen-year-old boy’s testimony about a bloody, horrific attack. Who could judge in the retelling whether Dimitri’s culprits, a band of people dressed like carnival acts, were fantasies concocted to deal with the more gruesome memory of his father’s head rolling across Duscur’s fields?

Even if Dimitri knew that they had been real.

“But you know your people are innocent?” he said, begging for at least that much.

Dedue smiled.

“My people were lovers of peace,” he said. “They lived in harmony with the land and each other.”

Dimitri turned from the window, satisfied.

“However,” Dedue said.

Dimitri froze. “No,” he said.

“Your Highness,” Dedue sighed, “an attack of that scale, so deep in Duscur, would have been impossible to execute without local support. I do not say that all Duscur people were involved in the plot, but you cannot rule out the possibility that some were.”

Dimitri unbuttoned his jacket and threw it onto his bed.

“Did you see Mila before you came here?” he asked.

Dedue sighed again. Dimitri ignored it, struggling to undo the ties on his shirt cuffs.

“I did, my lord,” Dedue said finally.

“What did she say?”

“She believed that an early night would be more beneficial than further discussion.”

“Very well,” Dimitri said, abandoning his fight. He grabbed the post of his bed and swung down to sit on the mattress. His back was to Dedue, but he heard a drawer open and close. As always, Dedue refused to allow any inconvenience to Dimitri, even stooping to putting away clothes like a servant.

“I will leave you to rest, Your Highness,” Dedue said.

Dimitri refused to acknowledge his bow, waving him away with one hand.

The darkness was so thick it was a weight on Dimitri's shoulders. Air escaped his lungs in painful gasps. He found he could not draw more.

“Help,” he screamed, but it came out as a whimper.

There was no answer. Dimitri collapsed to his knees and they struck stone. The impact reverberated through his bones.

_Father._

It was only a thought. Dimitri’s voice was gone. But his father would hear him. His father always heard him. He had promised that he would always come.

Nothing but silence and shadows. Dimitri curled into a ball. It was bitterly cold. He was trapped, with no one to help him, no one to pull him from the pit. He had to escape on his own. How could he rely on others for aid? He had failed so severely, let so many people down. He was not deserving of anyone’s help.

Dimitri lifted himself up. He reached out, digging his fingers into the earth above his head. He clawed at it, pushing upwards. If he could just find some light. If he kept going, he might surface into some wonderful place where not all was murky night. A single star in the sky would be enough. That would offer him a little warmth and comfort.

Hope died as dirt landed on his face. It fell into his mouth, its texture gritty on his tongue. He felt it piling up around his bare feet. Worms slithered through it, tickling his skin. He was burying himself.

Dimitri’s body jolted. He opened his eyes, throwing a hand out and seizing the first solid thing he touched. Warm flesh yielded beneath his grip.

“Your Highness.”

Dimitri turned his head on the pillow and saw Dedue leaning over him, his hand on Dimitri’s shoulder. The jolting had been Dedue shaking him awake. The thing Dimitri clutched so tightly was Dedue’s forearm.

“You are safe, Your Highness,” Dedue said.

Dimitri released him. Dedue withdrew, his right hand moving towards his left arm. But he did not follow through with the action, even though the marks Dimitri had left must smart. They both knew from experience that by the end of the day, those marks would be bruises. Dimitri’s control was especially pitiful when he was startled or half-asleep. That was why, when the nightmares had taken hold a few months after the Tragedy, Rufus had ordered that Dimitri was only to be woken by Dedue and not the usual maid or footman.

“I’m sorry,” Dimitri whispered, sitting up.

“Do not apologise, Your Highness,” Dedue said. “We depart in an hour.”

Around the edges of the window curtains, Dimitri could see the bronze light of dawn. After several restless hours staring at the canopy of his bed, he had somehow slept through the night.

“Are the others up?” he asked.

“They are, my lord. Lady Galatea is eager to greet you. Lord Gautier expressed regret that they were unable to see you earlier.”

Sylvain’s words were a code between them, to let Dimitri know that his friends had tried to visit and been forbidden.

“And Felix?” he said.

“Lord Fraldarius had no message.”

Dimitri swung his legs off the bed.

“You must begin to call them by their given names now you are their classmate,” he said. He paused, punching a fist into the pillow. “You should do the same with me.”

There was no hesitation on Dedue’s part.

“Forgive me, my lord.”

Dimitri shrugged to hide his disappointment. He went to the window and threw open the curtains. The lanterns had been left in the gardens, but their flames were extinguished.

“My lord.”

Dimitri glanced over his shoulder. Dedue shifted his weight, his fist bouncing against his leg.

“I wanted to make something clear after our conversation last night,” he said. “I am with you. I will lend my support to your revenge, whatever shape that may take.”

An unfamiliar warmth burst in Dimitri’s chest. He smiled.

“Thank you, Dedue,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for the amazing response to the first two chapters of this story. I was honestly blown away by the lovely and kind comments, and the kudos support. I have been busy plotting and hope you will enjoy the results.
> 
> Stay safe in these difficult times, and I hope this story can bring a small amount of enjoyment and relaxation.


	4. Edelgard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the eve of their arrival at Garreg Mach, Edelgard and Hubert meet with their enemy and ally.

**Year 1180, Great Tree Moon. Day 14**

The window of Edelgard’s second-floor room at the Three Borders Inn provided a stunning view of Garreg Mach. From this distance, the only features she could identify were the three walls that circled the mountain and the cathedral, with its turrets stretching up towards the sky—towards the goddess, if the legends were believed. But the whole monastery, with its white buildings and tiled roofs, glowed gold in the dying light, vivid against the dark foliage of the forest that surrounded it.

Edelgard rested her chin on her hand. The monastery was the meeting place of the three nations of Fódlan, both geographically and within the walls of the Officers Academy. It truly was the jewel of the Oghma Mountains. And for the next year, her home.

Yet there was no place on the whole continent that Edelgard despised more.

Garreg Mach fed off the lands that surrounded it, driving the people into the dust. Tithing and allegiance were expected from everyone, whether they hailed from the Empire, Kingdom or Alliance. A tyranny justified by the elaborate fables constructed by the Church of Seiros. And at the centre of it was Rhea, archbishop and the greatest liar of them all.

Edelgard let go of the curtain, allowing it to fall closed and block her view of the mountains. She would never understand why people revered that woman. Even in Enbarr, where the church had lost its stranglehold, Rhea had supporters. More so in Fhirdiad, as evidenced by Edelgard’s betrothed. He ended every letter, including the one that lay on the bureau at which she sat, with the words “by the grace of Seiros.”

A sharp knock startled Edelgard. She yanked open the bureau’s central drawer, shoved Dimitri’s letter inside, and slammed it shut at the same moment the door opened. Turning on her chair, Edelgard saw Hubert loitering there.

“My lady,” he said with a bow. “I am sorry to disturb you, but he has arrived.”

Edelgard gripped the back of the chair with one hand.

“Alone?” she asked.

Hubert shook his head, slipping his hands behind his back.

“He is accompanied by six of those creatures, but they appear to be mere packhorses.”

Edelgard took a breath, then rose. She turned to the mirror set by the bureau. From the next day she would don the uniform of the Officers Academy, entering into a kind of anonymity as one student among many. But for now, she remained the Heir Apparent, and wore an obsidian circlet, prominent against her white hair, and a red coat with gold trimmings and a flared skirt. An appropriate reminder for her guest.

“Be ready, Hubert,” Edelgard said, tucking an errant lock of hair under her circlet.

“Of course, my lady.”

Hubert led Edelgard down the inn’s stairs and through the main hall to a side room, the type usually hired out for local weddings. The innkeeper waited by the door, twisting her hands together. Did she sense the strangeness of the person she had let into her house?

“You are to make yourself scarce,” Hubert said to the woman.

The innkeeper nodded frantically as she opened the door for them.

Inside the room, the curtains had been drawn and most of the furniture pushed against the walls. All that remained were two cushioned chairs in front of the fireplace, the holly decorating the backs indicating they were used for newly wedded couples.

In the one on the left sat the man popularly known as Volkhard. Edelgard knew his face well: a square chin and sharp features, framed with brown hair the same shade as her mother’s. His haughty, narrow eyes scrutinised her as she approached.

“What a fuss, my dear,” he said, raising his hand to his temple, “simply for the opportunity to see you before the school year begins.”

It was hard to reconcile that voice—which reminded Edelgard of grand stories told on warm summer evenings, while she sat in her oldest brother’s lap and her sister braided her hair—with the white-skinned, empty-eyed creature she knew it disguised. Edelgard did not know when Thales had taken her uncle’s face. She had never asked, and never would. Partly because knowing would not change a thing, but also because the thought of having happy childhood memories destroyed, when she had so few left, was sickening.

Edelgard lowered herself into the other chair, keeping her eyes trained on Thales.

“You know that I did not wish to be late to the monastery, uncle,” she said.

He chuckled. He always did when Edelgard called him uncle.

“I did not mean to complain too severely,” he said. “You know that it is never any trouble to visit my dear, precious niece.”

Hubert took up a position near Thales’s chair. Thales glanced up at him with a mild look of amusement.

“Do you mean to serve me tea?” he asked.

“I regret there is none to hand,” Hubert said.

“Then perhaps you could fetch some.”

“Lady Edelgard does not drink tea this close to dinner.”

Thales laughed again. It made Edelgard nervous. He was the only person she knew who dared laugh at Hubert. She sat forward in her seat to draw back his attention.

“Why have you come?” Edelgard asked. “It is a long way for an hour’s visit.”

“You know that distance and time mean little to me,” Thales said, idly flicking his gold earring with his finger. “Especially when you are involved. You are important. And I am concerned that you are wandering so quickly into the witch’s lair. If I am not mistaken, students are not required at the monastery for another four days.”

“A lot can be achieved in four days,” Edelgard replied. “A lot that would be hindered by the presence of others.”

“Like your pretty little fiancé?”

It was impossible to think that Thales had mentioned Dimitri as a mere taunt. Edelgard knew that he did not like the betrothal. He considered it little different to getting into bed with the church itself, and denounced it to Edelgard at every opportunity. As though she had asked for a devout consort.

“I told you that I would deal with him,” Edelgard said. “He will not be a threat.”

Thales shifted in his chair. “I would not wish to stand in the way of any of your desires, my dear,” he said. “But you must admit, he is a simpering, toady sort of boy.”

“He does not strike me at all as a sycophant.”

Thales snorted. “That surprises me. I would have thought with you, of all people, he would be the supreme flatterer.”

“He has given no indication of being such.”

“Hm. Then I suppose I have been misled as to the inclinations of human men.”

What a curious remark, Edelgard thought. She raised her eyebrows at Hubert, and was rewarded with a nod that indicated he was already working through what more it might reveal of the minds of Thales and his ilk.

“Let us discuss business,” Thales said. He crossed one leg over the other. “I have come here to confirm, once and for all, that we are of one mind regarding the matters that most concern us.”

Edelgard folded her hands in her lap.

“What could give you cause do you doubt my intentions?” she asked.

“Only your hostile attitude towards me.”

“Do you expect me to be grateful for the deaths of my siblings?”

Thales stroked his beard.

“Were it not for us, you would not be in your current position. Nor would you possess the same powers,” he said.

Edelgard pushed herself up from her chair.

“I plan to destroy the church,” she said. “You need not concern yourself with anything else.”

“On the contrary,” Thales said. “I will continue to check up on you to ensure your success. As well as provide you with all necessary support.”

He stood.

“Speaking of which,” he continued, gathering his cloak around him, “the item you requested has been delivered to your room.”

Edelgard’s heart thudded. She realised, too late, that the other beings Hubert had mentioned were not in the room. Hubert, for the first time during the whole meeting, looked unsettled. He strode to the door and threw it open. The main hall was empty.

Thales folded his arms over his chest. “Is there a problem, my dear?” he asked.

Edelgard pushed past him and Hubert, rushing towards the stairs. Hubert followed close after her.

“Why did you not stay in my room?” she demanded.

“I have failed you, my lady,” Hubert said.

Edelgard held the bannister as she ran up the stairs. She was not angry at Hubert, really. She was angry at herself. For being careless. For being caught up in Thales’s game, instead of seeing things clearly.

The door of her room was open. Edelgard entered to find the six extras crowded inside, all unidentifiable in their dark robes and beaked masks. Four guarded a large crate that had appeared at the end of the bed. The fifth stood by Edelgard’s clothing trunk. The last was beside the bureau, a piece of parchment in his hand. The drawer was open.

Edelgard clenched her fists as their heads turned towards her. The smooth surface of their masks shone in the firelight, stirring up spectres of all the terrifying things that had led her to this place. She hated them, despised them. She wanted them removed from her room and her entire life, but she could not move to do either.

Hubert spoke. The air in the room thickened and the candles flickered. The being by the bureau dropped the letter and snatched at its throat, wheezing.

At that moment, heavy footsteps announced Thales’s arrival.

“Call him off,” he ordered.

Edelgard grabbed Hubert’s sleeve. He looked down at her, but his right hand remained raised, tendrils of black fog circling around his fingers. Edelgard shook her head. Hubert lifted his chin—the same way he did when he was about to defy his father’s orders—then extinguished the magic.

The being collapsed to its knees, struggling for breath. Edelgard took Hubert’s hand and squeezed it, as Thales stepped up beside them.

A blast of magic lit the room, throwing Edelgard to the side. She hit a cabinet and her breath burst from her body. She clutched at the cabinet’s door in order to stay upright, looking towards Thales and Hubert.

Hubert met Edelgard’s eyes, his expression apologetic. He had attacked her.

Meanwhile, Thales’s fingers wrapped over Hubert’s shoulder. A thrum travelled through the air, causing the cabinet door to vibrate. Hubert’s legs buckled, not from the weight of physical strength, but the wicked magic that belonged to those who slither in the dark.

“You demonstrate considerable power by attacking one of us,” Thales said. “But do not overreach. Remember your place.”

By the time Hubert’s knees hit the floorboards, he was breathing heavily, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. Trying to stop himself from making a sound, from releasing even a whimper of pain. Thales continued to push, forcing Hubert to lean forward and grovel at his feet.

Edelgard looked away.

“As for you,” Thales said, and the other beings in the room stood to attention, “I told you to deliver the crate and leave. What gives you the right to rifle through the princess’s belongings? Get out.”

Frantic footsteps filled the room as the beings obeyed. Edelgard turned her eyes to the fireplace, not wanting to watch them, and too ashamed of her inaction to go to Hubert.

When the noise on the inn stairs had faded, Thales came towards Edelgard. He tilted her chin upwards with one finger, casting his eyes over her face.

“Study well at school, niece,” he said. “Make good use of your time.”

Thales swept his cloak around himself and left, letting the door swing closed behind him.

Edelgard remained by the cabinet as Hubert pushed himself to his feet. With brusque movements, as though he was trying to hide some discomfort, he crossed to the window and pushed back the curtain.

At length, he announced, “He is gone.”

Edelgard took a deep breath. Hubert glanced at her, then crouched down to pick up Dimitri’s letter.

“Are you injured, Lady Edelgard?” he asked, his gaze on the floor.

“No.” Edelgard swallowed, and added, “You?”

“I am unharmed.” He straightened and began to fold the letter with great concentration. “Forgive me.”

Edelgard rested against the cabinet, her hands behind her back. Forgive him for what? Protecting her from Thales? She understood what had happened. Hubert, much more finely attuned to magical auras then her, had sensed Thales’s power. He had panicked and pushed her, worried that she would be caught in the spell. So Edelgard was not angry that Hubert had used his magic on her. If anything, his actions gave her hope.

Hubert pinched the letter’s fold and ran it between his finger and thumb. Edelgard pushed herself away from the cabinet.

“To business,” she said.

At that, Hubert finally looked up. Edelgard crossed to the crate at the foot of the bed and knelt beside it. But with her fingers on the latches, she hesitated. As she stared at them, she heard Hubert’s footsteps.

“Are you certain about this?”

Edelgard looked up. Hubert lowered himself down beside her and held out the letter. The fact that he had folded it to hide the words was of little significance; Hubert would never read her personal correspondence. But he would recognise Dimitri’s hand. And he would know that she had hidden the letter from him.

“I have weighed all possible pathways,” she said, meeting Hubert’s eyes. “This is the right one.”

The corner of Hubert’s lips twitched. He dropped the letter. It fluttered to the floor.

Edelgard unclipped the crate’s latches and pushed back the lid to reveal a suit of armour, complete with helmet and surcoat. The metallic finish appeared dull in the firelight, but she knew that under the sun it would shine as bright as the ocean when she gazed south from Enbarr. It was beautiful.

“Then this is the Flame Emperor,” Hubert said.

His voice was filled with awe. Edelgard felt only dread as she lifted the helmet free of its wrappings. It was forged from a single piece of iron, its surface flawless. The shape was similar to a typical Adrestian barbute, with a magnificent red plume emerging from its top. However, its most striking feature was the visor. Pointed at the forehead and chin, it was a sculpted face that Edelgard recognised from the opera mask used to designate heroes.

She snorted. No doubt a deliberate choice on Thales’s part.

Edelgard stood. She took a breath, then lowered the helmet over her head and faced the mirror.

The reflection she saw was another person. One immune to the trivialities of human emotions and willing to do what must be done, all questions or doubts banished. The only sign of life in this person’s face were the eyes, shining through the visor’s narrow slits. Her eyes.

Hubert stepped up behind Edelgard.

“Are you still determined to meet with these bandits?” he asked.

“Yes,” Edelgard said.

The voice that emerged from the helmet was not her own. It was deeper, stronger, unrecognisable. Evil magic. Edelgard whipped the helmet off. She held it in both hands, studying its red and white paint.

“I know this scheme has little chance of succeeding,” she said. “But if it does, it may limit the damage we cause while reshaping the world.”

“Not so long ago you said that you would carry out your plans whatever the cost. What has changed?”

Edelgard met Hubert’s gaze in the mirror.

“You were right,” she said. “About the crown prince.”

Hubert crossed his arms. “Then you are willing to risk his life?”

Edelgard shifted the helmet under her arm.

“Yes.”

“Then please, my lady, permit me to name a dozen other candidates for this task,” Hubert said. “Ones I am certain would prove more reliable and less distasteful than the man you have in mind.”

Edelgard turned to him. “You take issue with my choice?”

“Kostas is…inefficient, my lady. Crude. One could almost say, incompetent.”

Edelgard laughed and returned to the crate.

“We cannot risk hiring someone who can be traced back to House Vestra or the Imperial court,” she said. “Whatever you think of these bandits, it is inconceivable that anyone would connect them to the Empire.”

“Then at least allow me to make alternative arrangements, should they fail…”

“No,” Edelgard interrupted. Hubert drew back. “For now we will take this one shot in the dark. If it strikes, it is good; if not, we bide our time. I cannot risk arousing any suspicions that someone is seeking the lives of the Kingdom and Alliance’s heirs.”

Edelgard placed the helmet into the crate.

“At least this way, I will also be in danger,” she mused. “No one believes an attack’s victim could be its perpetrator. And because of this armour, even the thugs will not know who is paying them.”

“In that case, my lady,” Hubert said, “I can confirm that the bandits’ leader will be waiting by the ruined well at dawn tomorrow.”

There were slight variations in Hubert’s tone of voice that most people missed. Not Edelgard. While others heard the same, threatening drawl of yet another scion of House Vestra, she heard panic, pain, pleasure. Worry. And fealty.

When she heard the last of these, as she did now, Edelgard knew Hubert was making plans that he did not intend to share. For once, she thought she knew what they were.

“I will trust you to escort me and provide protection, should the need arise,” she said, turning towards him.

Hubert grinned.

“I thank you, my lady.”

Warmth had returned to his voice. Edelgard reached out and squeezed his hand briefly, before Hubert stepped backwards and bowed. His boots clicked against the floor as he left.

Edelgard watched the door close, glad for his departure for the sake of silence, and wishing he would return. She and Hubert both knew suffering—though they never discussed it. Words couldn’t erase the scars on Hubert’s arms, where his father had struck him with a switch. They couldn’t return the colour of Edelgard’s hair or the lost years.

But there was a small comfort in the presence of someone who understood.

Sighing, Edelgard dropped back down beside the crate and caressed the black and red surcoat. Its sleeves were embroidered with perfect little tongues of fire.

As she admired it, Edelgard noticed Dimitri’s letter, on the floor where Hubert had discarded it. She picked it up and ran her thumb over the broken seal. A lion. Could Dimitri live up to his ancestor?

If the bandits were successful, she would never find out.

Edelgard unfolded the letter. It was crossed: Dimitri had penned a second collection of lines over the first at a right angle. A ridiculous thing, frankly, because surely a crown prince could afford a second sheet of paper. But Edelgard did feel a little grateful for it at that moment. Perhaps the being had not deciphered the letter. After all, it took her, who had read it before, a moment to locate the passage she had been examining when Hubert arrived.

> _In the castle gardens this morning, I noticed signs of green amongst the snow. It must be difficult to understand, living most of your life in Enbarr, what a magnificent sight that is. I see it as a sign of hope, a reminder that even after the worst of winters, summer comes._
> 
> _I know that I promised you not to make any attempts at poetry or romance, but I pray you indulge me a moment. This year, seeing the early sprouts held an extra significance for me. It means that I will soon depart for the Academy, and we will be reunited. I hold hope that our letters have brought us to a place of, at least, friendship. When we arrive there, Edelgard, will you tell me that my hope has not been misplaced?_

Edelgard drew her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs, the letter hanging from her hand. A shiver ran up her spine as she sensed eyes upon her. When she looked around, she was met with the etched frown of the Flame Emperor’s helmet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed the chapter. It was fun getting back into Edelgard’s head.
> 
> This is the first scene I have written featuring Thales, and it was both enjoyable and challenging! The tension between him and Edelgard is tricky. I am hoping to add a bit more complexity to the Agarthans in this story, rather than leave them as the 2D villains we encounter in the game. Whether I succeed will be left to time...but for now, onto the reunion.


	5. Dimitri

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dimitri is reunited with Edelgard, and meets the heir of House Riegan.

**Year 1180, Great Tree Moon. Day 19–20  
**

As Dimitri descended the stairs from the third landing of the first floor dormitory at the Officers Academy, Edelgard exited one of the rooms on the second. She saw him and froze, one hand poised to lock her door and the other grasping the strap of her bag.

Dimitri’s first feeling was surprise, to see Edelgard with her hair loose and in an Officers Academy uniform. Her chosen style was a short military jacket and a romper, different to the other girls, and a far cry from the gowns she had worn during his visit to Enbarr. But Dimitri had learned through their correspondence that Edelgard had a straightforward and practical personality, an ability to cut through to the heart of a problem. Because of that, his surprise quickly transformed into admiration. The uniform suited her.

And her shimmering lilac eyes were more beautiful than Dimitri recalled. Would he forever misremember her loveliness? Or would her image, one day, be as familiar to him as his own?

“Princess,” Dimitri said, unable to hold the smile from his face.

Edelgard stared at him for a long moment. Then she locked her door, turned her back, and strode down the hall, leaving him standing there alone, bewildered.

Dimitri’s suffering did not end with that. As their company for the commencement training exercise marched south from Garreg Mach, through the mountains and into Empire territory, Edelgard spoke with nearly everyone, be they student, professor, or Knight of Seiros. She was not shy or nervous or unsure of herself. She did not want for topics or words, and no one was beneath her notice.

Except, apparently, Dimitri.

Now, in the dying daylight, Edelgard sat on the opposite side of the campfire to him, propped on one arm with her legs folded beside her. The position caused her to list towards Professor Siegfried, her current conversation partner. As Dimitri watched, Edelgard swept her hair over her shoulder and smiled at the professor. He, clearly smitten, laughed.

That horrid pang of jealousy struck Dimitri once again. And he wondered, had he been a fool the entire time? While he stared at the miniature Edelgard had gifted him after their betrothal ceremony, trying to imagine what secrets those eyes held, had the one Dimitri gave her been cast into a drawer and forgotten?

All the worse for him. Even now, Edelgard’s portrait was ensconced in the inside breast pocket of his tunic.

A thud startled Dimitri; another student had dropped to the ground beside him. The newcomer had tan skin and dark brown hair styled in careless waves, except for the braid that framed the right side of his face. A yellow cape marked him as the leader of the Golden Deer, allowing Dimitri to deduce his name before he could declare it.

“Claude von Riegan,” the student said, holding out his hand with a grin.

Dimitri accepted the offer. He was keen to get to know Claude in person, after hearing so much about him from Fhirdiad’s rumourmongers.

“Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd,” he said.

“Gods, that’s a mouthful,” Claude replied, leaning back on his arms. “Of course, I knew your name before I came over here. That’s how it works with people like us, right?”

Claude glanced around the campsite, spurring Dimitri to do the same. For most of the day, the students had kept to their individual houses. Now, they were intermingled, chatting and getting to know each other. It was a mad cacophony of raised voices and name-dropping, familiar to Dimitri from both the royal court and the castles of nobles throughout Faerghus. The same everywhere.

“Moreover,” Claude added, turning his face towards Dimitri so quickly that his braid whipped his cheek, “we’re cousins. Distant, remote, and many-times-removed cousins, but, you know, cousins.”

Dimitri frowned. He was, of course, aware of the connection between the Riegan family and his own, but no one ever mentioned it. In 881 House Riegan had declared war on House Blaiddyd, sparking the twenty-year conflict that resulted in the Alliance’s independence from the Kingdom. Even three hundred years was not enough time to forget or forgive that.

Claude’s decision to refer to it made Dimitri more curious.

Although Claude was reportedly the grandson of the current Duke Riegan, he had not been acknowledged by his grandfather, or even known to exist, until the day, a mere year ago, when he was named as the house’s heir. A great deal of gossip (and a lot of slander) had followed the announcement, as people tried to figure out where this propitious and mysterious Crest-bearer had sprung from.

Now, seeing Claude for himself, Dimitri understood the rumours better. Neither Claude’s hair nor skin were features of the Riegan family, who were red-haired and Fódlan through and through. But more interesting than that was the way in which Claude spoke and behaved—he was not quite right. Not in a bad sense; he seemed nice enough, and easy-going. He was just not…Fódlan noble. Not even of the Alliance variety.

“So, cousin,” Claude said, shifting positions in order to throw an arm around Dimitri’s shoulders, “that there is Her Imperial Highness Edelgard von Hresvelg.”

Claude blatantly pointed at Edelgard. Dimitri pushed his hand down. Luckily, Edelgard was too engrossed in whatever it was that Professor Siegfried was saying (curse him) to notice the glaring breach of etiquette.

Claude was undisturbed by Dimitri’s silent admonition and continued on.

“If she’s Edelgard von Hresvelg, and you’re Dimitri Alexandre Blee…”

“Blaiddyd,” Dimitri supplied.

Claude clapped his hand against Dimitri’s chest and let it rest there. Dimitri was unsure if it was an apology for the mispronunciation of his name, or Claude’s method of specifying him, in the same vein as pointing at Edelgard. Regardless, it only served to make Dimitri uncomfortable.

“You two are betrothed,” Claude finished.

And he raised an eyebrow at Dimitri.

Dimitri averted his eyes, and saw a weed, its leaves spreading across the ground. He started tearing them away from the stem.

“What of it?” he asked.

“Why’re you sitting over here when she’s over there?”

Claude finally took his arms back, which made Dimitri feel as though he had regained a little power in their strange conversation.

“A betrothal does not mean spending every moment together,” he said, glancing up at Edelgard.

“So you’re not, like, dating?”

Dating? Dimitri held in a laugh as he threw the weed’s shredded leaves towards the fire. Apparently he and Edelgard were less than acquaintances. He was not worthy of even a simple greeting.

Unexpectedly, as though his mind was playing traitor, Dimitri remembered the words he had written in his last letter to Edelgard. A blush burned across his face. Could he have made more of an idiot of himself? He prayed to the goddess that Edelgard had burned that letter, erased all evidence of his childish stupidity.

“No, we’re not dating,” he said to Claude. “Nothing like that at all.”

Dimitri was still awake, trying to forget, when the screaming started. He moved without thought: grabbing his tunic and tugging it on, because he knew it was cold outside; yanking on his boots and gauntlets; and taking in hand the lance he had been assigned for the trip. Screams were a call to fight, and there was no time to wonder what had happened, on what was supposed to be a calm and controlled training exercise.

The moment he burst from his tent, Dimitri knew that the trip was no longer a training exercise. The campsite was swarming with large, heavily-muscled men, dressed in animal furs and wielding real weapons: heavy axes and great swords. Weapons that would snap the students’ training ones in half with a single stroke. The students themselves fled in all directions, yelling and squealing. Some hadn’t even armed themselves before escaping their tents, revealing their inexperience.

Knowing that they would have to be protected, Dimitri made a quick assessment of the battlefield. Professors Hanneman and Manuela were standing their ground near the remains of the campfire, defending the students using magic. Lord Vestra was beside them, making his own, significant contribution towards stopping the thugs from harming his peers. Dimitri could see a blue-haired boy using an axe to fend off a ruffian, while a green-haired boy and purple-haired girl cowered behind him. Sylvain, Felix, and Ingrid were all engaging the enemy, like true children of Faerghus. As was a girl with short orange hair, who wielded her lance with skill. And there was Professor Siegfried…running away.

Dimitri felt a small but satisfying jolt of justification.

And then, he saw a flash of yellow disappearing into the trees. Claude was carrying a bow, which was good. But it would not be enough against the half dozen ruffians who were following him into the forest. After sparing a glance at the campsite, to make sure that Hanneman and Manuela were in control, Dimitri sprinted after Claude.

The ruffians made enough noise for Dimitri to track them with ease. He judged he was only a hundred feet or so behind them. When he caught up, he would act quickly. Take out at least one man before they knew he was there, then handle the rest. He would be able to beat them, he was certain. He had faced greater numbers before—

Something wrapped around Dimitri’s ankle. He fell, face first, into the undergrowth. He cast his lance aside, knowing the danger of its blade, and grunted as he hit the ground.

A heavy weight landed on Dimitri’s back, a hand covered his mouth. He struggled, and tried to shout out, but his captor sat near his shoulders, limiting his movement. And it was hard to gain any edge when his head was being held back at an almost painful angle.

“Ssh!”

It was Claude. Dimitri stopped struggling, until the moment he felt his captor relax. Then he shoved him off, none too gently. Claude hit the ground heavily.

“What are you doing?” Dimitri hissed as he sat up. “I was carrying a lance!”

It wasn’t a dark night—the moon was full and the sky perfectly clear—so Dimitri could see Claude’s smug grin.

“A strategic retreat, cousin,” Claude said. “What do you think…?”

Claude was cut off as a flurry of red and black limbs tripped over him, squealing as it fell. Dimitri moved instinctively, skidding across the ground to catch Edelgard in his lap. The air was knocked from his lungs when she hit his chest, but he clamped his arms around her all the same, preventing her from sharing his and Claude’s fate of rolling about in the dirt.

As Dimitri caught his breath, he looked down into Edelgard’s eyes. She looked up at him in return, with an expression of pure anger.

“What are you doing?” she hissed.

Red-faced, Dimitri lifted Edelgard off his lap and stood. He brushed down his uniform, getting rid of the worst of the dirt and grass, before offering Edelgard his hand. She took it, still glaring at him. Her indifference had been an act. Hope bloomed again, before Dimitri could trample it down.

When Claude held up a hand for help, Dimitri turned his back.

“Why did you follow us?” he asked Edelgard. “It’s dangerous.”

“Why did you follow him?” Edelgard snapped back, gesturing to Claude.

“He was in trouble.”

“He…”

Claude slapped one hand over each of their mouths.

“Shut up!” he breathed.

A few dozen feet away, Dimitri saw the ruffians, approaching in a semi-circle. They had realised Claude was gone and turned back to find him. And Claude’s warning came too late, as Dimitri made eye contact with one of the thugs, a shorter man with a full brown beard. He smiled uglily.

Dimitri shoved Edelgard and Claude towards the south, the only clear path. They ran.

Dimitri’s lungs were burning, his legs threatening to give out. He suspected Edelgard and Claude fared no better. But they had to keep running. Dimitri’s lance and Edelgard’s axe were gone, forgotten in the undergrowth, leaving Claude’s bow as their only defence.

Their last hope was a village Dimitri could see in the clearing ahead, cast grey against the shadowy trees in the first light of dawn. Surely the villagers had weapons. If Dimitri and Edelgard were armed, they could fight. But asking the villagers for help would be to put their lives at risk…

Dimitri crashed into the fence that marked the village entrance, nearly tumbling over the top of it as he fought for breath. Half a dozen feet away, an enormous man looked up from tending his horse. A man in heavy armour and an orange surcoat, with a fierce lance strapped across his back.

Claude fell against the fence beside Dimitri.

“Look,” he huffed belatedly, pointing at the man.

The man frowned and approached them.

“Those uniforms…” he muttered.

A trumpet sounded from the village’s watchtower. Dimitri glanced over his shoulder to see the ruffians storming across the clearing. But there were more than before. Where had they come from?

As Edelgard caught up and doubled over, clutching her side, Dimitri pushed himself away from the fence. Although his legs groaned to bear his weight again, he stumbled towards the man.

“Please,” Dimitri puffed, “help us…being pursued…”

The man lifted his fingers to his mouth and gave a sharp whistle. Within moments, the door of a nearby building opened, and a group of people, mercenaries, poured out.

“Arm yourselves! The village is under attack!” the man bellowed.

Claude joined Dimitri, followed by Edelgard. She reached out to stop the man from walking away.

“We can fight too,” she said. “Give us weapons.”

The man raised an eyebrow, before whistling again and waving at his gang. Two of the mercenaries separated out and ran towards them.

“Byleth, Albrecht, get these kids weapons,” he ordered.

With that, he mounted his horse and freed his lance from its sling in a fluid movement, moving forward to lead the charge.

“What do you use?”

Dimitri turned to the woman. Byleth. He thought she couldn’t be much older than him, with not a single line on her face, and innocent-looking blue eyes. But she wore a mercenary’s outfit, with a sword in hand and a knife on her belt.

“Do you have a lance?” Dimitri asked.

“Take this,” the man, Albrecht, said.

Albrecht handed over his own weapon, a rough looking spear, probably from the mercenaries’ shared stash.

“Girlie wants an axe,” Albrecht said to Byleth.

Byleth passed her sword to Albrecht and grabbed Edelgard’s arm.

“I’ll take her, you keep an eye on these two,” she said.

The moment Byleth and Edelgard disappeared into the building, the ruffians arrived.

The fight was a blur, a desperate skirmish, as they always were. There was nothing beautiful or poetic about battle. It was sweat, it was blood. It was terror. The air was thick with it, as the villagers screamed, as one of the houses was torched—where had the fire come from? Surely not magic. If the ruffians had mages, they were doomed.

Dimitri fed off battle panic for strength, too tired to find his own. He stayed near Claude, who still had only a training bow and would certainly be cut down if anyone came too close. But before Dimitri could prevent it, he found himself back-to-back with Claude, as three ruffians closed in on them. A distance away, the mercenaries, including Albrecht, were occupied, and not likely to come to their aid.

Claude laughed.

“If I’d known the Officers Academy was going to be this thrilling, I’d’ve stayed home,” he said.

From the corner of his eye, Dimitri saw Claude’s bow fall to the ground. He heard the distinctive sound of a knife being drawn. He hadn’t seen another weapon on Claude’s body, and pondered that he would have to reassess his fellow house leader’s capabilities.

“I don’t think now’s the time for jokes,” Dimitri replied, eying the ruffian directly in front of him. The man carried a knife and a sword.

“If you can’t joke when…”

Claude didn’t get to finish explaining his philosophy. There was a yell and the clash of metal, as Claude grunted with effort.

At the same moment, the ruffian facing Dimitri lunged. Dimitri spun his spear, turning the blunt end upright, and thrust it through an opening between the ruffian’s two blades. Struck on the chin, the man fell, stunned. Dimitri kicked him to make sure he was not going to get up, and spun to the third threat.

This ruffian swung his sword in a wide arc as he advanced, compelling Dimitri to retreat. At the last moment, he was forced to push Claude out of danger as well.

An anguished cry, and Dimitri’s mind blanked. His heart urged him to check that Claude was okay, but his head said he would be dead if he did. So as the third ruffian took a step to the left, Dimitri leapt forward and propelled his spear under the man’s guard and into his chest. A shocked expression passed across the man’s face, before he slumped to the ground, his dead weight yanking the spear from Dimitri’s grip.

Dimitri spun, feeling like he would choke on his fear.

His fear was unfounded. Claude stood over the thrashing body of his opponent, who had suffered a deep knife wound across the width of his stomach. The man clutched at its edges, trying to hold them together. The heir of House Riegan, a family known for its prowess in battle, watched in abject horror, his hands over his mouth, as though he was trying to not be sick.

As his panic subsided, Dimitri retrieved his spear and stepped up beside Claude. The ruffian on the ground was done for, in his death throes. Blood poured from the wound, his lips were red with it. He would have a slow and agonising death if left.

Dimitri put a hand on Claude’s shoulder and urged him to turn away. Then he shoved the head of his spear into the man’s heart.

An ugly shout drew Dimitri’s eyes. He saw the bearded man from earlier hurtling towards Edelgard, axe raised. A shout was ripped from Dimitri’s throat, his feet moving before he even knew if he could reach her in time.

A blinding flare of pain exploded through Dimitri. He screamed and crashed to his knee, then lost his balance and fell sideways. His hip struck a rock, causing another burst of agony. Reaching to find the source of the pain, to try and make it stop, Dimitri found a knife embedded in the back of his calf. It had punched through the leather of his boot, into his muscle. He couldn’t pull it free or he would start to bleed profusely.

Claude shrieked, and Dimitri looked up in time to see him yank his knife out of the neck of the ruffian Dimitri had stunned. It was that man’s knife in his leg, Dimitri realised.

And then Claude turned from the man he had killed and vomited on the ground.

“Edelgard,” Dimitri breathed.

He turned, searching for her, his heart racing. But she was standing, unharmed, watching, unharmed, as the bearded bandit fled with those of his gang who could walk. Byleth was beside her, sword at the ready.

“You okay?”

Claude crouched down beside Dimitri. He had apparently finished throwing up, but he still looked pale. Dimitri felt a rush of sympathy.

He accepted Claude’s assistance to sit up, but had to twist his leg into a strange and uncomfortable position in the process, to prevent the knife from being moved or dislodged. As the adrenalin of the fight faded, the pain grew worse. Dimitri’s breathing grew shallow as he tried to force his discomfort into the part of himself that was used to these things, thought nothing of them.

“I think I need a healer,” he said to Claude.

Claude nodded and raised his hand into the air.

“Hey!” he yelled. “Over here!”

The Knights of Seiros arrived too late to be of use. The mild fury of their commander, Alois, at missing out on the fight was forgotten completely when he recognised the mercenary in the orange surcoat: the legendary Blade Breaker, former captain of the Knights of Seiros. Dimitri reflected that he would have to offer an extra tithe when they returned to Garreg Mach, to thank the goddess for such protection.

With the danger past, the villagers emerged from their houses and offered the mercenaries, knights, and students alike a place to rest. Edelgard was against the idea, eager to return to the others and make sure they were safe. But Alois shook his head and said that the professors were already escorting them back to the monastery, under the care of the knights he had left behind.

“Besides,” he said, reaching up to throw an arm over the Blade Breaker’s shoulders, “I’ve got to catch up with my former captain here.”

The Blade Breaker rolled his eyes and shoved Alois away, opting instead to help Byleth—his daughter, as it turned out—clear up the mess left by the fight.

Dimitri was relieved that they were going to stay. The simple truth was, he had not slept prior to the attack, and between that, the fight, and his injury, all he wanted was to collapse onto the ground, anywhere, and sleep.

The villagers did better than a spot on the ground, however, showing Dimitri and Claude to a small room with a packed dirt floor and straw bedrolls. At that moment, there was no better place in the world.

Claude claimed one of the bedrolls with a happy sigh. He shucked his boots and coat, before cocooning himself in a blanket and dropping with a thud.

Dimitri moved a little more carefully, his leg tender in spite of the healer’s work. After sitting down and removing his boots, he examined the hole the ruffian’s knife had left in the right one, before throwing it aside in frustration. It would have to be professionally repaired.

Not bothering to remove anything else except his gauntlets, Dimitri lay down and closed his eyes.

“Dimitri?”

Dimitri opened his eyes and looked across at Claude. He was staring at the ceiling, one hand under his head.

“What is it?” Dimitri asked. He hoped it wasn’t anything complicated, but wasn’t sure if Claude was capable of that. Considering their acquaintance thus far.

“Thanks for not telling them.”

For a long moment, Dimitri could not fathom what Claude meant. Then he remembered that Claude had vomited after the fight. No one had seen it except him.

Dimitri looked up at the ceiling as well.

“Think nothing of it,” he said.

There was silence, promising the rest Dimitri needed. He was about to give into it when Claude spoke again.

“How do you do it?”

Dimitri sighed.

“Fight?” he asked.

“Kill.”

“Oh.” Dimitri considered for a moment. “They say that children in Faerghus learn to hold a weapon before a pen. That was certainly true for me.”

“Sounds hard.”

Dimitri had never thought of it that way. He, Felix, Sylvain, Ingrid, all of them were required to attend daily combat classes from the age of seven or eight. It was just the way things were done.

“What’s it like in the Alliance?” Dimitri asked.

“The Alliance?” Claude snorted. “You know, this and that. I guess I never thought about it too hard.”

“You didn’t train?”

“The Alliance is governed by a council of nobles, right? So diplomacy’s important. At least, that’s the main thing my grandfather wants me to learn.”

“So you never learned to fight.”

“I learned to fight. I never learned to kill.”

Dimitri rolled onto his side, turning his back to Claude, and pulled a blanket up to his chin. Claude must have understood, because he didn’t ask anything else. Dimitri was glad. He didn’t want to be forced to reveal how sad it made him, to learn that in the early hours of this new day, Claude had lost his innocence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it ever mentioned what colour Tiana's hair is? Because I couldn't find it, and so decided she's a redhead. I think it suits what we know of her.


	6. Edelgard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edelgard gets to know Byleth and Jeralt.

**Year 1180, Great Tree Moon. Days 20–21**

The mercenaries’ healer was skilled, as one would expect from the Blade Breaker’s gang. But magic could only do so much. Once the bleeding was stopped and the wound closed, the body had to take over and finish the job naturally over time.

So when Dimitri and Claude left the village tavern, it was with Dimitri’s arm slung over Claude’s shoulder, and Claude shortening his gait to match the prince’s limp. Edelgard watched their progress from the end of the hall’s long, central table. Every single one of their awkward steps added to the guilt festering in her stomach.

“You seem upset.”

Edelgard tensed. She had chosen a seat as far away from Jeralt, Alois and the other mercenaries as possible in order to avoid company. She didn’t feel like talking.

But when she looked away from Dimitri to tell the unwanted visitor to leave, she discovered that it was Byleth, and the words died on her tongue.

During the attack that morning, Kostas had charged Edelgard after she threw her axe at one of his men, saving a mercenary. She had drawn her dagger to defend herself, but at the same time had known the truth—it was over. A dagger was a poor opponent for Kostas’s weapon, and she for his strength. Edelgard had fallen into to her own trap.

However, while Edelgard had accepted her imminent death, Byleth had jumped in front of her, to force Kostas back with a flurry of parries and attacks that spoke of a true sword master. And at the close, the final blow before the bandits fled, Edelgard thought she had seen the glow of a Crest across Byleth’s skin. Although she couldn’t be sure; one sometimes imagined things in the heat of the moment.

In the aftermath, Edelgard had lost track of her saviour, much to her disappointment. Now, Byleth’s damp hair and clean skin revealed that she had vanished in order to freshen up. In addition, she had removed her armour and overcoat in favour of the tattered clothing underneath: a skin-tight black top with short sleeves; a half-skirt at the back that extended to her calves; and shorts. All over lace-patterned stockings that looked extravagant for someone who made a living from fighting. A small vanity?

But what caught Edelgard’s attention the most was the knife at Byleth’s hip. She was armed, even inside a harmless village tavern. That she would be so cautious only increased Edelgard’s interest in her.

“What do you mean?” Edelgard asked, shifting a little on the bench to encourage Byleth to sit down.

Byleth stepped over the bench, carefully balancing the two tankards she was carrying so the contents didn’t spill, and took a seat.

“You’re upset about the boy,” she said. “The blond one.”

Edelgard laced her fingers together in her lap, where Byleth couldn’t see them.

“Of course I am concerned. One of my classmates was injured,” she said.

Byleth shook her head. “No. I don’t think you’d be upset if it was the other one.”

With that, she pushed one of the tankards across the table. It was filled almost to the brim with ale. Edelgard stared at it, unsure. She had never tasted ale. They didn’t serve it at the royal palace, where wine and fruit juice were the beverages of choice.

“Students at the academy aren’t supposed to drink alcohol,” she said, looking back up at Byleth.

Byleth shrugged and took a swig from the tankard she had kept. It was an odd sight, because, Edelgard realised, Byleth was stunningly beautiful. Her features, delicate and fairy-like, would not be out of place on Seiros’s face in the frescoes of Enbarr Cathedral. And although she possessed the lean muscle of professional swordfighters, her build was slim and slight. Yet here she was, swilling ale like the best of the enormous men and women at the opposite end of the table. Edelgard wondered whether Byleth would have been a mercenary, had her father been someone other than who he was.

“I’m curious as to why you refer to Dimitri as ‘boy,’” Edelgard said, determined to learn more about this strange woman. “You don’t look much older than me.”

Byleth tilted her head to the side, blinking languidly.

“Maybe you’re right,” she said.

And that was all she said, which confused Edelgard. Most people would announce their age when confronted with such a charge, or launch into a tirade about why they possessed so much more experience of the world.

To cover her uncertainty, Edelgard lifted her tankard. It was heavy, and she was forced to steady it with her other hand before tasting the ale. To her surprise, it wasn’t bad. It was certainly sweeter than the wine preferred by the Empire’s nobility.

“I knew you were a rule breaker,” Byleth said.

Despite the lack of expression in Byleth’s voice, Edelgard’s cheeks warmed. No one had ever said anything like that to her before. Not even Hubert. Her father and Duke Aegir liked to point out how obedient she was, while Thales saw her independence as something to be broken.

Edelgard stared at the ale, feeling a sudden desire to drink more.

“I should say,” she said slowly, “I appreciated your help this morning. Your skill is beyond question.”

“Think nothing of it,” Byleth said, crossing her arms and leaning on them. “My father gives the orders. I just obey.”

“Your father,” Edelgard repeated. “That would be Jeralt, the Blade Breaker? Former captain of the Knights of Seiros?”

Byleth was still for a long moment, before reaching for her tankard.

“I didn’t know he was a captain,” she said.

Her eyes darted towards her father as she took a sip of ale.

Edelgard couldn’t keep her mouth from falling open. There was nothing to suggest that Byleth was lying—in fact, her whole countenance struck Edelgard as shockingly honest—but such a claim was near impossible to believe.

“All of Fódlan knows his name,” Edelgard said. “Even at the palace in Enbarr, the songstresses tell stories about him. The strongest knight to ever live.”

Byleth turned back to Edelgard.

“The palace?” she queried.

Edelgard tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear.

“I may as well tell you now,” she said. “I’m no mere student. I am also the princess and Heir Apparent of the Adrestian Empire.”

Byleth frowned. “So, you’re royalty?”

“Most people react differently,” Edelgard said with a laugh. “You speak as though you’ve never heard of me.”

Byleth rested her chin on one hand.

“My father doesn’t care much for politics,” she said.

It took Edelgard several moments to realise that Byleth was being serious. When she did, her thoughts jumbled. She didn’t know whether to be offended or amused by this person who claimed to know nothing about her.

“But you live in Adrestia,” Edelgard said, trying to understand.

“I don’t really,” Byleth countered. “At least, not all the time. The gang lives wherever there’s work. Our next job’s in the Kingdom.”

Edelgard did not particularly wish to return the conversation to Dimitri after so successfully diverting it, but her curiosity was too great.

“Dimitri, then,” she said. “The crown prince of Faerghus. You must have heard of him.”

“I know there’s a royal family in Faerghus.”

Edelgard shook her head in wonder. Since birth, she had been surrounded by people obsessed with power, people who could recite the names of all the influential families on the continent. Most of her acquaintances, whether long or short, had attempted to use their relationship with her to advance their own interests. Even when she had been nothing more than the emperor’s twelfth child. It made Byleth’s ignorance all the more fascinating, all the more enchanting. Was this what it was like to be free of the burdens of Fódlan’s poisonous society?

“Well,” Edelgard said, picking up her tankard, “you’re certainly quite unique.”

“All right!”

Edelgard jumped, spilling some of her ale. On the other side of the hall, Jeralt swung to his feet and slammed his tankard down onto the table. Opposite him, Alois retreated, leaning backwards with a look of alarm.

“Enough already,” Jeralt said, his deep voice clear in the ensuing silence. “We’ll come to the monastery with you. I can only speak for me and my child, mind. I’ll not force any of the gang to submit to the will of someone they don’t believe in.”

Someone they don’t believe in? Excitement twirled in Edelgard’s chest. Could it be that the Blade Breaker’s gang was at odds with the church?

All around the tavern, Jeralt’s outburst was met with horror. Some of the mercenaries jumped to their feet, others shouted protests. Edelgard looked back at Byleth. She had no obvious, emotional reaction. With a blank expression, she emptied her tankard.

Alois was elated and agreed to postpone their departure for Garreg Mach until the following morning, to give Jeralt time to prepare for the change in his plans. Edelgard’s mild frustration at the delay (she dreaded to think how Hubert would react when she finally got back to the monastery) was mitigated by Jeralt’s next action: he kicked the Knights of Seiros out of the tavern, demanding a private huddle with his gang. Edelgard stayed in her seat as the knights left and the mercenaries gathered around their leader. Although she suspected that Jeralt would send her away once he noticed her, she could not resist testing that assumption.

Edelgard was counting the mercenaries’ number—seventeen—when Jeralt caught her eye. Under his piercing glare, she froze, her stomach churning. But, surprisingly, he said nothing. Eventually he just snorted and turned to his gang. Edelgard leaned on her elbows, taking his silence as permission to listen.

“I’m sorry to do this to you all,” Jeralt said. He had remained standing so the whole gang could see him, and now he looked at person individually. “But I meant what I said. Byleth and I will be heading to Garreg Mach with the knights.”

“Then we’ll come with you,” a mercenary with short brown braids declared, lifting her drink into the air.

Her words were echoed by the rest of the gang. All except Byleth, who, seated beside her father, was quiet and still.

“You’re not understanding,” Jeralt said. “I don’t expect I’ll be returning to the road any time soon. You all know what the church is like.”

Several beats of confused calm followed Jeralt’s statement. Then Albrecht, the man who had given his spear to Dimitri, jumped to his feet.

“Are you saying you’re disbanding the gang?” he cried.

An uproar followed that, until Jeralt silenced them with a sigh.

“I’m not disbanding it,” he said. “We’ll have a vote, here and now, for a new leader.”

Edelgard frowned. Jeralt was giving up his position as leader of the mercenary gang he had formed? All because Alois had asked him to visit the monastery? That sounded more like the actions of a follower of the church, not a sceptic.

“We can’t have another leader,” interjected another woman, this one with tanned skin and deep purple eyes. “This is the Blade Breaker’s gang. Without the Blade Breaker, we’ll not get work.”

“Then someone else can adopt the name,” Jeralt said. “It’s not like I need it.”

“None of us match you with a lance. Word’ll get out. People’ll realise. Say we cheated ‘em.”

“I’d trust every single one of you with my life. You’re all good, or I wouldn’t have let you into the gang. I know you won’t let the people down. Go on to the Kingdom job, build a new name for yourselves.”

“If we go without you, they’re like to turn us away.”

“I don’t think…”

“They’re right, dad.”

At the sound of Byleth’s voice, the rest of the gang stopped talking. Byleth turned in her chair and grabbed her father’s hand, gazing up at him with pleading eyes. Jeralt looked back at her with a soft expression that was out of place on his stern features.

“Do we really have to leave?” Byleth asked.

Jeralt sighed heavily.

“I do,” he said. “You’ve not dealt with the Knights before, kid. Or the church. If I refuse, the archbishop will give the order for them to hunt me down.”

Edelgard held in her scoff of amusement. So the Blade Breaker was scared of Rhea?

Jeralt dropped down onto the bench beside Byleth and rested his free hand on her shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Saying you’d come with me…that was selfish. I’ll not force you. And maybe it’d be better if you stayed with the gang. I know they’d take good care of you.”

Byleth scrunched up her nose.

“Don’t be stupid,” she said. “Of course I’m going with you.”

Jeralt shook his head and let Byleth go.

“Well then, that’s that,” he said. “As to my recommendation for the new leader, I’d say Verena.”

The woman with the brown braids smiled and nodded her head at him in thanks.

“But it’s up to you,” Jeralt said. “As of now, I don’t have a say in the affairs of this gang. Although if anyone else wants to throw their glove down, I’d be honoured to oversee a fair vote.”

Albrecht put his bid in for the leadership, but Edelgard could tell that it was a formality. The vote went unanimously to Verena. As the mercenaries ended the meeting with a toast to their former leader, Edelgard resolved to watch Jeralt carefully. Not only because of his apparent history with Rhea and the church, but also because she suspected that he could teach her something about gaining people’s trust.

In the intrigue surrounding Jeralt and Byleth’s departure from the mercenary gang, Edelgard was able to temporarily forget her guilt. But when they gathered at the border of Remire Village the next morning, it was thrown back in her face as Alois turned to Dimitri, with a worried glance at the leg he was favouring.

“We’re still within the Oghma Mountains, so we should be back at the monastery before dinnertime,” Alois said. “But it’s something of a hike. Will you be okay?”

Dimitri smiled in a way that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Please don’t concern yourselves with me,” he said. “I’m perfectly fine.”

Jeralt, standing beside Alois, frowned deeply and folded his arms across his chest.

“There’s no point being stubborn,” he said. “At a pinch, that kind of attitude puts everyone in danger. Ride my horse.”

Dimitri shook his head. “No, it’s no trouble, I…”

Jeralt took a step forward. Although he was only slightly taller than Dimitri, his bulkier frame made it seem as though he towered over the prince.

“Get on the horse,” he said.

Claude covered his mouth, eyes shining, as Dimitri hobbled over to Jeralt’s stallion. Edelgard didn’t find the situation half as amusing. Every step Dimitri took was another spoonful of regret.

The knights and Jeralt led the way down the road, leaving Edelgard, Claude and Dimitri to bring up the rear. Byleth glanced from them to her father, then fell back to walk next to Claude. He threw a triumphant grin over his shoulder at Edelgard and Dimitri.

“I’m sorry I didn’t introduce myself properly yesterday,” Claude said to Byleth, holding out his hand. “Claude von Riegan. And allow me to express my sincere gratitude for your assistance with the bandits. If you guys hadn’t come to our rescue, I’d be dead right now.”

Edelgard shook her head. After Claude’s arrival at the monastery, it had taken about an hour for her to grow tired of Claude’s nattering. He was perfectly incapable of holding his peace. And in Byleth, he had a new target.

It was going to be a long day.

“Did you sleep well?”

Dimitri spoke so quietly that Edelgard barely heard him above Claude’s nonsense and the horse’s hooves. For a moment, she considered pretending that she hadn’t, continuing the farce she had started the morning of the training exercise.

Truthfully, Edelgard’s guilt had been sparked not by Dimitri’s injury, but by his greeting in the hallway of the academy’s dormitory. His enthusiasm, his familiarity, had startled her. Worse, she had felt uneasy, knowing that in a few hours he would be dead by her command.

Frustrated by her reaction, Edelgard had snubbed him. Left him alone in the hallway without a word, thinking it would result in him leaving her alone.

Instead, Edelgard had felt Dimitri’s eyes on her throughout the entire training exercise. So she had doubled her efforts, taking no notice of him while speaking to every other person on the trip, including the dreadful Professor Siegfried. It had worked. By evening, Dimitri had been obviously miserable and avoiding her.

But when the bandits had attacked and Dimitri had chased them into the forest (risking his life to help someone he had just met, someone as irritating as Claude von Riegan), something in Edelgard had snapped. She had remembered the naïve words of his letters. His strange determination on the day of her investiture. Thales looking her in the eye and calling Dimitri her pretty little fiancé.

And, barely understanding why, Edelgard had abandoned her carefully organised plan and followed him.

More than a day later, she still didn’t understand why she had done it. But her actions had made it impossible to continue to ignore him.

Edelgard looked up to see Dimitri watching her. When their eyes met, he quickly averted his focus to the horse’s neck, a blush staining his cheeks.

“I did,” Edelgard said softly.

Dimitri’s eyes widened.

“And you?” Edelgard asked.

He cleared his throat before answering. “Well enough. Thank you.”

Edelgard looked down at her feet as they continued on.

“I hope your leg isn’t causing you too much pain,” she said.

“It’s no bother,” Dimitri replied quickly. “Please don’t worry.”

Edelgard nodded and the conversation ended there.

It was mid-afternoon when Edelgard finally recognised the road on which they travelled. It was one she had followed a week earlier during her approach to Garreg Mach. They would be at the monastery in little less than an hour. Edelgard couldn’t wait to escape Claude’s painful chatter and Dimitri’s painful silence. To see Hubert.

She was wondering whether Hubert would be waiting at the monastery’s front gate when Claude’s voice rose above its customary volume.

“Wait! You mean to tell me you don’t know about Their Highnesses?”

Dimitri, who had dismounted to stretch his legs and was currently leading Jeralt’s horse, flinched. Edelgard only had a moment to wonder at that before Claude stopped and spun to face them. Byleth did too, observing Claude serenely.

“His Highness Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, Crown Prince of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus,” Claude said, rudely pointing at Dimitri. “Her Imperial Highness Edelgard von Hresvelg, Heir Apparent of the Adrestian Empire.”

Edelgard rolled her eyes as Claude aimed his finger towards her. Had anyone bothered to teach him basic manners? Perhaps the Alliance was even more cavalier than she had been led to believe.

“I know Edelgard,” Byleth said. “We talked yesterday.”

“But she didn’t tell you they’re engaged?”

Realising why Dimitri had flinched, Edelgard sighed and began walking again. The others fell in line with her, until they were walking abreast, Dimitri, Claude, Byleth, and then Edelgard.

“I don’t know much about the royal families,” Byleth said.

“Or the church,” Claude muttered, a pensive look on his face. “Really, By, you just grow more and more intriguing.”

“Is this your first time at the monastery?” Dimitri asked.

Byleth nodded.

“Wait, wait,” Claude cut in, “back up a minute. Where are you from, then?”

Byleth lifted a hand to her face, scratched below her ear absently.

“I don’t really know,” she said.

“But you must have been born somewhere. Adrestia, Faerghus, or Leicester. Which was it?”

“Claude,” Edelgard cautioned.

“My father never told me,” Byleth answered apologetically.

Claude held up his hands.

“Okay then,” he said. “How about this? If you don’t know where you were born, you must, at least, have a preference for a particular place. Look, the heirs of Fódlan’s three great nations are before you. Where does your allegiance lie?”

Edelgard sniffed, her fury at Claude growing. Surely he could see he was making Byleth uncomfortable with all his questions.

But at the same time, she had to admit that she was a little curious about the answer to this one. And when Byleth glanced at her, she felt her heart jump a little. She wanted the mercenary to chose her.

“I guess the Empire,” Byleth said.

A smile escaped Edelgard.

“A wise choice,” she said, trying to inject nonchalance into her response. “Although the Empire has fallen from its former glory, the other regions are merely offshoots that pale in comparison.”

Beyond Byleth and Claude, Edelgard saw something close to disappointment flash across Dimitri’s face. He quickly looked at the ground and tugged on the horse’s reins, urging the animal forward so that its head partially blocked him from her view.

Claude laughed.

“I suppose I walked right into that one,” he said. “Not that it really matters. At the academy, we’re separated into houses according to where we come from, but the idea is that we work together, right?”

Edelgard swallowed the lump that formed in her throat and glanced ahead. She could see the spires of Garreg Mach above the trees.

“Well, we’ll be there soon enough,” she said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I just want to say, I am seriously overwhelmed by the lovely reviews this fic is receiving. When I'm struggling through the planning and editing of each new chapter, they keep me going.
> 
> Stay safe.


	7. Dimitri

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first day of classes highlights new and old challenges for Dimitri.

**Year 1180, Great Tree Moon. Day 23**

Dimitri hit the hard surface of the training ground. Air rushed from his lungs and his training lance flew from his hand. He stared up at the blue sky above and blinked to clear his vision as a weight settled on his chest—a single, booted foot. The Crest of Blaiddyd ignited and he stilled so he did not accidentally use it. The pressure against his ribs was controlled, authoritative, but not hostile.

“How utterly uninspiring.”

The tip of a wooden blade tickled Dimitri’s chin and he looked up into the professor’s eyes. They were as inexpressive as the smooth, white mask that covered half his face.

“I knew I had drawn the short straw when the archbishop said I was to be responsible for the Blue Lions,” Professor Jeritza said. “However, I dared to hope I would encounter talent in the child who put down the Western Rebellion. This is rather…disappointing.”

Dimitri focussed on catching his breath, the moment doubling as an opportunity to decide how to respond. His next words might decide how he was treated for the rest of his time at the Officers Academy.

In the wake of the disastrous training exercise, the archbishop had dismissed Siegfried for abandoning the students during the attack. Dimitri had thought little of the news until he had learned that the disgraced man was to have been the Blue Lions’ house professor. Every year, a faculty member was appointed to each of the academy’s three houses to act as a mentor and oversee the missions required of the students each moon. It was only a single aspect of the program—every class received instruction from a variety of specialised professors across law, history, culture, magic, combat and tactics, as well as lectures from members of the church—but it was an important one. And one that Dimitri had been looking forward to.

Rumours regarding Siegfried’s replacement had spread quickly among the students. One even stated that the job had fallen to Byleth, the Blade Breaker’s daughter. But the mystery had remained until the Blue Lions were summoned to the training ground instead of their classroom. There, their new house professor had been waiting, sword in hand. One by one, he had challenged each of the students, their weapon of choice against his, and thoroughly defeated them all without offering a single word of encouragement or instruction. Even having suffered through similar training since he was a child, witnessing it had made Dimitri feel…cold.

He didn’t trust the professor. Not at all.

“I am sorry to disappoint you, Professor,” Dimitri said. “I will redouble my efforts when training.”

The professor snorted before removing his foot and sword. Dimitri felt the power of his Crest fade.

From where the rest of the Blue Lions stood in a neat line contrary to their dishevelled appearance—sweat soaking their uniforms and hair falling from ties—Dedue rushed forward. He offered Dimitri his hand and pulled him from the ground.

“Are you well, Your Highness?” he asked in an undertone.

“Unscathed,” Dimitri replied as the professor turned to the class.

“Not one of you is worth my time,” the professor announced. “Not even your house leader.”

“But sir!”

The objection issued from Annette Dominic. Dimitri knew of her more than he knew her, thanks to her father, the man who had saved his life in Duscur and carried him home. That was the last time he had seen Gustave. A few months later, the knight had abandoned his family and disappeared. For that reason, Dimitri felt only guilt as Annette raised herself to her greatest height and faced their professor in his defence.

“His Highness was injured at—”

“Do you think your enemies will give quarter because you are injured?” Professor Jeritza snapped.

Annette shrank and bit her lip, before another student, Mercedes, put an arm around her and drew her back into the line.

“Clean yourselves up and present at the classroom by thirteenth bell,” the professor said. “Hanneman has the dubious pleasure of teaching you this afternoon. Pray your academic abilities outweigh your combat arts. Dismissed.”

As soon as the professor was gone, Ingrid bolted over to Dimitri and Dedue.

“Your Highness, are you hurt?” she asked.

Dimitri shook his head as Sylvain sauntered towards them, trailed by Felix. The rest of the Blue Lions, Annette included, held back, looking unsure. After a moment, they headed in the direction of the sauna and washrooms. Dimitri’s heart sank. He wanted them to behave as equals during their time at the academy, but apparently it would take more than words to convince them to treat him as a friend rather than a prince.

“Nice work, Your Highness,” Sylvain said. “Here was me thinking you’d restore our pride.”

“You cannot criticise,” Ingrid retorted. “You yielded in the first two minutes.”

Sylvain held up his hands. “It’s called self-preservation.”

“You’ve no sense of honour at all, do you?”

“Are you questioning my character?” Sylvain asked in mock outrage.

“I was not aware it was something in question,” Ingrid replied. “Do you not have three different girlfriends at the present? And we’ve only been here as many days.”

Sylvain grinned, throwing his arm over Felix’s shoulders. “And each of them pretty as a daisy. Right, Fe?”

“Leave me out of this,” Felix said, shoving the redhead away. “I’ve got better things to think about. This weapons professor will actually provide me a challenge.”

“Challenge?” Sylvain raised his eyebrows. “Fe, he whipped you. Challenge him and you’ll enter a world of pain.”

“Exactly,” Felix said. “I’ll have to train hard to best him.”

Sylvain whistled. “I do not understand you. At all.”

“I’d be happy to…” Dimitri began.

Felix turned on his heel and walked away, tugging his hair out of its bun as he went. Sylvain watched after him a moment, frowning, before looping his arm over Dimitri’s shoulders.

“Since the professor dismissed us early,” he said, “how about we celebrate our first morning of classes?”

When the word “celebrating” exited Sylvain’s mouth, there were two possible meanings: girls or cards. Dimitri hesitated, wanting to know which he intended before accepting. Ingrid showed less reticence and immediately shook her head.

“Leave me out of your juvenile games,” she said, following Felix.

“Cards are a knight’s sport!” Sylvain shouted after her.

Ingrid ignored him. Sylvain dropped the arm he’d been waving at her and looked to Dedue.

“What about you?”

“I am not good at cards,” Dedue said.

“Neither is Dimitri, but sometimes he wins.”

“If we play, we can’t gamble,” Dimitri said. “We’re at Garreg Mach Monastery.”

Sylvain tutted. “Poor, innocent prince. What do you think the monks do with their time off?”

“Pray,” Dimitri responded.

Sylvain laughed and dragged him towards the training ground exit.

“Poor, innocent prince,” he said.

Dimitri frowned at the cards in his hand, then selected the Lily of the Valley and discarded it. Behind him, Ingrid hissed from her place atop Felix’s desk. Dimitri froze, his hand hovering above the card. Sylvain, beside him, and Felix, sitting on his bed opposite, both leaned forward.

“Are you sure?” Sylvain whispered.

“Shut up,” Felix said, uncrossing his legs and dropping his feet to the floor.

“Hey, he’s crown prince,” Sylvain murmured, eyes fixated on Dimitri’s hand. “Gotta stay on his good side.”

Dimitri looked towards Dedue, who regarded him with a stoic expression that begged Dimitri to end his torment.

“Forgive me, Your Highness,” Dedue said. “I am utterly lost.”

Dimitri took a breath, then proceeded with his original plan and flipped the top card of the draw pile. A sunflower, matching the card he still held in his hand.

Sylvain cackled, threw his last card onto the Lily of the Valley and turned the top of the pile to make another match.

“And that’s a win to me,” he said, arranging his cards to count his points. “I’m going to be rich by the end of the year.”

Felix nudged Sylvain’s knee with his foot.

“You’re already rich,” he said.

“If only you put this much effort into your training,” Ingrid commented.

Sylvain clutched at his heart while Ingrid jumped down from the desk, knelt beside Dimitri and began to rearrange his cards to garner as many points as possible.

“The Gautier family are famous for their skills in combat,” Ingrid said. “You learned from the very best. If you train even a smidge more than you currently do, you’ll beat the professor easily.”

“You,” Sylvain said, thrusting a finger towards her, “are sore about the professor thrashing us all. Well, he’s our professor. He’s supposed to be better than us.”

“He’s from Adrestia,” Ingrid said.

Dimitri frowned. The faces of his cards blurred as his eyes unfocussed. He blinked and looked up to find Ingrid studying him.

“Don’t you realise what this means?” she asked. “All of the professors are from Adrestia. Siegfried was the only one who wasn’t.”

“And he was the only one to run away when brigands attacked,” Sylvain said.

“This isn’t funny. It’s a sign of things to come.”

Dimitri leaned across the circle and grabbed the rule book Sylvain carried alongside his cards. Sylvain hissed as he knocked some of his carefully organised win out of place, but Dimitri ignored him, opened the book at random and began to read.

“Ing, the masked professor is not a sign of impending doom,” Sylvain said as he fixed his cards.

“I heard he was recommended by Lord Arundel,” Ingrid replied. “The future emperor’s uncle. That cannot be coincidence. The Empire wants to take back control of the continent.”

“Can’t you let this go for a minute?” Felix said. “I’m tired of all these theories. You’re reading a lot into the appointment of a teacher.”

“I’m certain. Don’t you agree, Your Highness?”

Dimitri winced, suddenly regretting agreeing to the card game instead of Dedue’s suggestion that they go to the greenhouse.

“Seriously, Ingrid?” Felix said. “You’re asking him? The Prince of Morgaine?”

Sylvain swatted Felix’s leg as shame curdled in Dimitri’s stomach. Between Duscur and Glenn’s death, the Western Rebellion, and now the betrothal, his main contribution as a friend seemed to be causing pain, anger and frustration. For Felix, whom Dimitri married was a topic of no importance (because he was of no importance); for Ingrid, it was paramount. Sylvain was caught somewhere in the middle, not far enough in either direction to calm the bickering.

Dedue caught Dimitri’s eye, his offer clear even though he said nothing. Dimitri only needed to give the signal and an urgent appointment would be remembered. As Ingrid opened her mouth again, he was tempted to accept.

“How about the new tactics instructor?” Sylvain exclaimed.

There was a moment of stunned silence. Then Dedue said, “She is the mercenary who saved you and the other house leaders, is she not, Your Highness?”

“Yes,” Dimitri stammered. “Yes, I heard she was offered a position because the archbishop was impressed with her skills.”

“Exactly,” Sylvain said as he lifted his hands to his chest in a suggestive manner. “She’s got very big sk—”

“Must you always, Sylvain?” Ingrid sighed.

“Ingrid dearest, you know I must,” he said. “Anyway, my point is that she seems like someone who could teach Felix a thing or two.”

“What the hell do you mean by that?” Felix demanded.

“She’s a mercenary, isn’t she? She could teach you how to use your sword, you know, properly.”

Felix grabbed Sylvain’s arm and twisted it up behind his back. Sylvain let loose an exaggerated yelp at the same moment a knock sounded at the door.

“Come in?” Felix called, keeping his hold on Sylvain.

The door opened. When Dimitri saw who was behind it, he scrambled to his feet, Sylvain’s rule book falling to the floor.

“Vestra,” he said.

“Your Highness,” Hubert replied, lazily raising an eyebrow.

Dimitri flushed as he realised that he, the highest ranking person in the room, had been the first to stand. Dedue hadn’t been far behind, but the others were still seated, looking surprised. Hubert’s sardonic expression grew into a smirk as, too late, Sylvain levered himself to his feet using Felix’s bed and Ingrid rose.

“Forgive the interruption,” Hubert said.

“How may we assist you?” Sylvain asked jovially.

Crossing his arms, Hubert ignored Sylvain and said directly to Dimitri, “Her Imperial Highness wonders if you would join her for tea.”

“Now?” Dimitri asked.

“If it is convenient.”

Dimitri’s mind scrambled for an explanation. After Edelgard’s behaviour during the training exercise and afterwards, he had not expected an invitation to spend time with her. Perhaps she had felt awkward, speaking to him in front of the other students? She had never mentioned nor did she seem to suffer from shyness, but one never knew. Or maybe it was that she found the move from page to person difficult.

Whatever the reason, Dimitri heard his uncle’s plea and knew he was being handed an opportunity.

“I will be there shortly,” he said, trying to keep his voice even.

“At the gazebo, Your Highness,” Hubert said.

“I’m sorry?”

“Her Imperial Highness is waiting for you at the gazebo. I would not wish for you to wander the grounds aimlessly because you failed to ascertain where Lady Edelgard is.”

A lump stuck in Dimitri’s throat.

“Of course,” he said around it. “Thank you.”

Hubert bowed and left without closing the door.

“Must you become a blathering idiot every time you talk to that snake?” Felix, still seated, spat.

Dedue quickly reached for the door and closed it, but it was too late. Hubert couldn’t be far down the hall and had certainly overheard the accusation.

“You couldn’t wait a moment, Felix?” Sylvain bit off.

“Hubert makes everyone nervous,” Ingrid said, resting a hand on Sylvain’s arm to calm him down. “I can say that without any doubt and I’ve only known him a day.”

Sylvain took a deep breath and smiled.

“You’ve got to remember, Fe,” he said, “that His Highness has had a crush on Edelgard since we were mere babes. He’s bound to be nervous when she asks for tea.”

“And what would you know about childhood crushes?” Ingrid asked.

Dimitri knew Ingrid was trying to defend him, but he wished she had let the comment pass instead.

“I know far more than you will ever comprehend.”

“Goddess,” Felix swore, pushing himself away from the bed at the same moment Sylvain dropped onto it. “Don’t say it was one of us.”

A light touch on Dimitri’s arm caused him to turn. Dedue stood beside him and, once again, his expression spoke volumes while he remained utterly silent.

“Yes,” Dimitri said. “I should go.”

Ingrid dropped into a curtsy. “Have a pleasant time, Your Highness.”

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t,” Sylvain winked.

Felix waved a hand at Dimitri and began to collect the cards from the floor.

When they were far enough from Felix’s room, Dedue finally spoke.

“Would you like me to attend you, Your Highness?” he asked.

Underneath the one question were dozens of others, ones that Dedue had asked before, that hurt whenever Dimitri thought of them. A headache fuzzed around the edges of his mind. He smiled.

“Go to the greenhouse,” he said. “I’m sorry I’ve kept you from it. Enjoy yourself and I’ll see you in class.”

Dedue shook his head.

“I can escort you,” he said. “It is customary to have some form of—”

“I’m sorry, Dedue, but I’d prefer to do this alone.”

Dedue nodded and bowed.

As Hubert had promised, Edelgard was sitting at one of the tables under the gazebo. She stared at the far hedge with her chin resting on her folded hands, a tea tray and plate of biscuits on the table before her. A picture of elegance. Dimitri tugged at his uniform, but it was a hopeless cause. He would never match her, he who broke everything and tripped over his own feet if he wasn’t watching them. He would always look a fool beside her.

Taking a deep breath, Dimitri finally approached the table.

“Your Highness.”

Edelgard turned her head, lifting a hand to brush a lock of hair from her eyes.

“Under the circumstances, I believe Edelgard is appropriate,” she said.

“If you wish,” Dimitri said. “Edelgard.”

“I do. Thank you for coming, Dimitri.”

Edelgard gestured to the seat opposite her. Dimitri took it as she held a tea strainer over one of the cups and began to pour.

“I hope you don’t mind bergamot,” she said.

“Delightful,” Dimitri replied.

Edelgard lifted an eyebrow. “You do not sound convinced.”

Dimitri brought his hands together and laced his fingers.

“Truthfully, I prefer camomile. But I understand it is not to everyone’s taste.”

Edelgard gracefully lifted the tea cup using the saucer.

“I find camomile’s flavour insipid,” she said. “I also much prefer the fragrance of bergamot.”

The tea cup made not a sound as she placed it before him. Dimitri looked down at it, chalking up his first risk to a loss.

“I’ll remember that,” he said.

Edelgard poured a second cup and added half a teaspoon of sugar. Dimitri watched as she stirred it and took a sip, entranced by the delicate curve of her fingers around the cup’s handle, by the way she pressed her lips together, savouring the tea’s taste.

“I thought,” she said as she put her cup down, “that we should spend some time together. Letters are only effective to a point when making someone’s acquaintance.”

Dimitri’s heart sped up.

“I’ve been looking forward to spending time with you for many moons,” he said.

“You have?”

Heat rose under Dimitri’s collar.

“I just…wanted to talk.”

“Oh.”

Dimitri grabbed his tea cup. He had not been under the illusion that Edelgard felt the same way as him, but it was unpleasant to have it confirmed so bluntly. He swallowed down the tea, giving no heed to the way it burned his mouth and throat. It tasted the same to him as everything else anyway. Like nothing.

“Hubert mentioned,” Edelgard said slowly, “that you visited the infirmary after we arrived back at the monastery.”

The embarrassment Dimitri had just suffered came rushing back.

“It was a precaution,” he said. “I’m fine.”

Edelgard made a small sound of disapproval. It startled Dimitri and he looked up at her.

“I heard about Professor Jeritza’s…introduction, this morning,” she said. “You should be careful. It would be unwise to aggravate your injury further.”

Dimitri took a breath, moving his hands under the table to rest on his knees. They felt safer there, away from the porcelain, as a sharp pain shot through his head.

“I am only glad you were not hurt in the skirmish,” he said.

“I was fortunate. Had it not been for Byleth, I fear the outcome would have been very different. She is a remarkably talented individual.”

Edelgard could not know that she was poking at wounds. The right thing to do would be nod and change the subject.

But Dimitri was curious.

“You must be happy that she expressed a preference for the Empire,” he said, lifting one hand back onto the table to trace the tea cup’s handle.

Edelgard smiled. It reached her eyes. Would she ever smile like that because of him?

“I am always happy to gather strong allies to the Empire,” she said. “It is my hope that I can convince Byleth to join me when I return home.”

“I’m not surprised,” Dimitri said. He took a sip of tea. “Did you mean what you said?”

Edelgard paused as she surveyed the plate of biscuits.

“About what?” she asked.

As expected, she had forgotten. Dimitri almost laughed at himself.

“About…not that it’s important, but about the Kingdom being an offshoot of the Empire.”

Edelgard frowned. “It is an offshoot of the Empire.”

The hurt Dimitri had felt the day before, when Edelgard had first dismissed Faerghus as unimportant, renewed. He wasn’t yet king, but his homeland was as much as part of him as his Crest. He knew it to be a country of proud history and strong culture, whatever Edelgard might have been taught by her Adrestian tutors.

“I hope you will not always think it pales in comparison,” he said. “Enbarr is stunning, but Fhirdiad also has beauty and charm. I would like it if you visited and saw for yourself.”

Edelgard swept her hair over her shoulder. She regarded him for a moment, then turned back to the biscuits.

“It was my understanding that Faerghus has very little to offer,” she said, selecting one. “Is that not the reason your uncle sought the marriage contract?”

It was a natural conclusion of the negotiations. She didn’t mean it cruelly. At least, that’s what Dimitri told himself as he fumbled for a response.

Edelgard glanced at him as she bit into the biscuit. When their eyes met, she dropped the treat onto a plate and lifted a napkin to her lips.

“I’ve upset you,” she said from behind it.

“No,” Dimitri replied, shaking his head. The action felt distant, as though did not occur by his will. At the same time, it put pressure on his intensifying headache.

“I can see plainly that I have,” Edelgard said, lowering the napkin. “Forgive me, I spoke without thought. It was tactless of me.”

Dimitri looked away from her. He sought another swig of the tea as Edelgard continued talking.

“I only wished to introduce the real reason I asked you here. To my mind, it would be beneficial for us to discuss the terms of the contract without our ministers and advisors breathing down our necks.”

“Must we?” Dimitri asked, putting down his empty cup.

“What do you mean?”

With a sigh, Dimitri placed his hands flat on the table and studied them. Something to focus his thoughts past the pain in his head.

“I hoped that we could get to know one another without the complication of the betrothal,” he said.

“But the betrothal is the only reason we are getting to know each other,” Edelgard replied. “I won’t insult you by pretending that were we not to be married, I would have very little to do with you outside our official roles and our duties as house leaders.”

Dimitri forced a laugh as he raised his gaze to hers.

“That’s very honest,” he said.

“I want to be honest with you. Lies are an insult to us both, as is flattery.”

This time, Dimitri knew the blush rose to his face. Goddess, he was a fool. Edelgard suddenly bit her lip and he wondered if his letters had come to her mind as well.

“I hope you will do the same with me,” she finished awkwardly.

“Be honest?”

“Yes.”

Dimitri thought of all the things he could say. There were so many secrets, so many hidden things. Would Edelgard believe him? More importantly, would she accept him if she heard them?

“To be honest,” Dimitri said slowly, “I am exhausted.”

Coward.

Edelgard blinked. Dimitri clenched his fists and returned them to his lap.

“As you heard, Professor Jeritza put us through our paces this morning,” he said.

Edelgard nodded. “I understand. Would you prefer to continue this another time?”

“Yes. Forgive me. After you went to so much effort.”

“Not at all,” Edelgard replied. “Here.”

She grabbed two of the biscuits and wrapped them in a napkin.

“You haven’t had lunch,” she said, pressing the bundle into his hands.

Dimitri smiled and bowed.

“Thank you,” he said. “Good afternoon, Your Highness.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many apologies for the delay in posting this chapter. It was one of the first I wrote (back in February, gosh) and needed a lot of reworking to make it work better with how the plot developed after I finished the detailed outline. (And I've been working on other projects. Sorry 🙇)
> 
> Regarding a change to canon that I want highlight: for the purposes of this fic, the Officers Academy does not operate according to the one professor per class system we see in the game. Instead there is a larger faculty of professors who all teach each class for particular subjects. I've based this on the fact that Jeritza is identified as a fencing instructor in the source, though I've broadened that to combat here, and on the seminar option. So the professor who leads each class is more like a homeroom or form teacher.
> 
> Otherwise thank you for your patience and for reading. If you want updates and previews follow me [here](https://twitter.com/RuneTari).


End file.
